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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481367">By Steps and Inches</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkingrunkles/pseuds/Funkingrunkles'>Funkingrunkles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AFAB reader - Freeform, Cohabitating, Filbrick pines can go eat a lemon, Mystery Shack, Other, Romance, Self Ship, Slow Burn, Young Stan, c. 1985ish, content warnings at the start of each chapter, murder hut, oh my god they were roommates, past abuse cw, past child abuse cw, past sexual abuse cw, sins I've committed against children's cartoons, x Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 09:19:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>76,868</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkingrunkles/pseuds/Funkingrunkles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes people just need to start over. Move to a new place, pick up a new name, and pretend the first thirty-something years of your life just never happened. You're one of those people, and the place you stupidly choose is dead-end small town Gravity Falls.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stan Pines/OC, Stan Pines/Reader, Stan/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>234</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So as a Sinner(tm) I have found a distinct lack of stan x reader slow burn/long fic. Ive never written this format before, so excuse any errors. Also wanted to say that while there is some later discussion of anatomy (ahem) there are no pronouns used toward the reader at all. I do eventually give the reader a name, because i just can't bear to write out Y/N lol, but it's androgynous On Purpose. Thanks!</p><p>UPDATE 3/21: so! This fic began as a simple reader/Stan fic and became a lot more. Rather than being nongendered, the reader character is genderqueer/questioning and a little more fleshed out and or specific than most reader inserts. I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: Leave. Harder than it sounds, but not impossible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step two: Divorce. Also harder than it sounds, since he keeps showing up outside your sister's house drunk and violent. It gets easier when the restraining order goes through, and he finally admits defeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step three: The rest of your life.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That step three should be simple, you think. But as you’re standing beneath the board at the bus station, watching letters flip as destinations and times change, you realize that this too will be harder than it sounds. Shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your sister dropped you off thirty minutes ago because she thought you knew where you were going. When you hugged her goodbye, you didn't tell her that you have no clue. You didn't tell, and she didn't ask. She has her own life and husband and kids to get back to. Besides, she’s already done enough for you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sigh up at the board. Each destination looks the same to you--as long as it's someplace that he isn't, you don't really care. So what else, then? You'll need a job, somewhere to live, and someone to talk to. You're supposed to be getting therapy. At least, you promised your mom that you would, but you're already thinking of ways to get out of that. You don't need therapy, just a fresh start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, this exercise has done nothing to narrow down a destination. It's been so long since you've had to make a decision for yourself--or, since you've been </span>
  <em>
    <span>able</span>
  </em>
  <span> to--maybe you’ve just forgotten how. You do know that you can’t keep standing here all day, though. It's been ten minutes and you feel like people are starting to stare. You hold your backpack strap a little tighter, grab your suitcase, and walk to the ticket booth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"How far away can I go on ten dollars?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The older woman at the register looks up from her knitting, eyes glazed over and tired. She checks something in the book in front of her, then says without a hint of emotion, "Gravity Falls, Oregon."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I--I've never heard of it..." you trail off, already rethinking this method of choosing. You look at the board, then back to the woman and her knitting. "When does the next bus leave?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She checks the book again. "Eight minutes."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your eyes go wide. Well, at least you won't have time to rethink this decision. You slide a ten dollar bill across the counter. "One ticket to Gravity Falls, please."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman slides a ticket back, not seeming to understand the weight of the role she's just played in the rest of your life.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Once again, you've made the brilliant mistake of not thinking this all the way through. As it would turn out, Gravity Falls is in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. As you stand at the bus stop and stare down the map of the town there, you realize with an angry flush that there isn't even a motel in this town.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Multiple thoughts flash through your head in rapid succession. Are you going to sleep on a park bench? Are you going to get robbed? How far is the walk to town from here? Are you going to get eaten by wolves? Does Oregon have wolves?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sit down hard on the stop's bench. The bus is long gone, way too far to catch up to now. Everything you own is in your backpack or your suitcase, you can't remember where you put your sister's number, and it doesn't even matter because there's no phone booth at this bus stop! Your breathing is getting a little fast, and it's getting progressively darker as the sun goes down behind the trees, and ohmygod is that a car?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You jump up before you can even think about stopping yourself and throw an arm out to the oncoming vehicle. The red car screeches to a stop, and only then does your brain kick in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Great, now you have to worry about serial killers AND wolves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A dark figure inside the car rolls down the window. "You lost or somethin’?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pause. The man leaning out the window can't be too much older than yourself—mid thirties?—and he doesn't *look* like a serial killer. You almost laugh at yourself. Of all people, you should know better than to judge by looks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I—uh, could you point me toward town?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes flick forward to the road, then back to you. "It's, like, an hour walk."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Well it would be nice to know I'm at least going the right direction," you snap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay, okay. Well, it's that way," he says, pointing toward the hood of his car. "But I'm headin' there if you want a lift."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No thank you."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You turn away and grab your suitcase handle, giving it a firm tug for the plastic wheels to find purchase on the gravel, and start walking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the car hums along beside you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You ignore it as long as you can, cold, panicked sweat creeping up your neck. It’s creeping along at your exact pace. As you speed up, it speeds up too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do you mind?" you yell, turning toward the car.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The driver raises a thick eyebrow. "Do you?" </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stop, and so does the car. "Look, I will be perfectly fine to walk to town. Just—just go away."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Not to be that cryptic horror movie character, but these woods aren't safe at night. Let me give you a ride."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"No."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brow lowers, and you can't tell in the twilight if it's amusement or frustration that made the change. Either one is dangerous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Look, I'm—" he sighs. "I'm just going into town for some groceries. I know a buncha folks in town, I promise I won't hurt ya, but somethin' else </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You bristle. "Is that a threat?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His sigh is more like a groan this time. "Would you just get in the car?!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The July heat isn't helping the nervous sweat clinging to your neck. "I don't trust...guys."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He barks out a laugh that startles you. "You're smarter than you look, then." He unlatches the door and pushes it open toward you. "C'mon. I don't bite."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You groan and stomp your foot in the gravel and you know it makes you look like a two year old, but you don't care. You put your luggage in the back without asking first, shoving aside soda cans and a sweatshirt in his backseat, and climb into the passenger side. Once the door is shut, he eases the car into motion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You keep your hand on the door handle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just come in on the bus?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You hesitate. “Why do you want to know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs again. You’re not sure you’ve ever met someone who laughs so </span>
  <em>
    <span>loudly</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I already know. This is a small town, I’d recognize ya if you hadn’t. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No way in hell,” you murmur. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, thought so. Well I’m Stan, Stan Pines. I run the Murder Hut back that way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jabs a thumb toward the direction he's come from, and your blood turns to ice. Is this guy fucking with you, or did you really just hitch a ride with a serial killer? Before you can plot out your next move, he laughs again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry, I know how that sounds. I’ve been tryna change the name but I was never a creative type. It's a museum of sorts,” he explains.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“For what, lampshades made of human skin?” you burst out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That earns you another chuckle. “Not yet, you know where to get some?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You don’t answer. The town lights are starting to poke up through the trees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright well, if I can’t get a name will you at least tell me why you’re here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m starting over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances over and you feel his eyes size you up for a moment. “You a fugitive or somethin’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s you that laughs this time, surprising yourself with the bitter sound. “Far from it. It’s way more boring than that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, keep yer secrets.” The car purrs to a stop at the first well-lit street corner you come across. At least he’s aware of how uncomfortable you are. Even if he is a little weird, you don’t feel like you’re in danger anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you have a place to stay for the night?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” you admit, “I don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s not a motel around for miles.” He scrambles around for something in the mess of papers on the dashboard. He ends up with a pen and an old scratch card, which he uses to scrawl out an address. “Old lady, real nice. Owns the bowling alley up the street. She’ll shack ya up for the night. I think her name is Tina, but I’m probably wrong about that.” He flashes you a toothy grin, and it looks a little too predatory for your comfort. “I’ll see ya around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You look down at the address, then open the door behind you before he can change his mind about letting you leave. You try to smile back. “Thanks Stan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything Stan said turns out to be true. There is indeed a very nice elderly woman living at the address he gave her, and her name is not Tina. Martha-not-Tina bristled at the mention of Stan’s name, but invites you in all the same. She fusses over you for a while, setting up the guest room and making the bathroom available to you. She finally leaves you alone around nine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As you lay down across the mattress, staring at the ceiling fan overhead, you realize you never had dinner.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The next step in the rest of your life: become self-sufficient.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Step one: get a local newspaper</p><p>Step two: find a job</p><p>Step two b: find a place to live</p><p>Step three: obtain said job and place to live</p><p> </p><p>Step one turns out to be easier than you think. Martha sends you up the street to the diner for breakfast after telling you that she doesn’t run a bed and breakfast, no matter what Stanford Pines has to say about it. There, you find newspapers for fifty cents each by the door.</p><p>You settle into a booth and order a big breakfast. You’re starving after yesterday’s long bus ride and lack of dinner.</p><p>The classifieds turn out sparser than you’d like. This town is <em> really </em> small. There appears to be a logging company hiring for an accountant, which you are not, and a senior care company hiring for a nurse, which you also are not. <em> He </em> made sure you never made it very far in your professional life. How could you wait on him hand and foot if you had somewhere to be, after all?</p><p>You lower the paper as something lands on the table in front of you. You’re expecting your breakfast, but instead you find a familiarly annoying face. Stan Pines has sat down in the booth across from you with his coffee mug and now he’s grinning like a shark.</p><p>“Hey no-name,” he drawls. “Long time no see. Tina put you up last night?”</p><p>You fold the paper and set it aside. “<em> Martha </em> did, yes.”</p><p>He snaps his fingers. “Martha! I knew her name wasn't Tina. Well, welcome to Gravity Falls. Found your fresh start yet?”</p><p>You glance over at the paper. The answer is a resounding no, but you aren’t ready to admit defeat. If there’s any fairness in this universe, some good luck is coming your way. “I’m working on it.”</p><p>He gives you a sly smile and leans in. His eyes are bigger than they have any right to be in a grown man’s face, and the honey brown catches the morning sunlight. “You think I don’t know what those ads look like? There’s fuck-all to do out here, and fuck-all cash to pay for it. I tried to find a job too, no such luck.”</p><p>“So the Murder Hut…?</p><p>He leans back again. “Happenstance.” Shrugs. “A happy accident.”</p><p>“Mhm, right. And who happens to be running that right now?”</p><p>“It’s Wednesday,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Wednesday’s my day off. Nobody’s long weekend starts <em> or </em> ends on Wednesday.”</p><p>You reach for the paper again. “Right. Well, I’m just gonna--”</p><p>He puts his hand on the paper, and maybe on purpose, over your hand too. You swipe it away like his hand is made of fire. If he notices, he doesn’t care. “I know a few places around town that're hiring, but they don’t put ads in the paper. I can drive ya around, if you want.”</p><p>You fold your hands in your lap under the table, fingertips tingling from the unexpected and unwanted touch. Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you think it over. You want to, no, <em> need </em> to do this for yourself. You need to prove that you don’t need help. On the other hand, you’ve got a feeling Martha isn’t going to let you stay very long. Should you just pack up and get back on the bus before it’s too late?</p><p>No. This is happening, and you’re not running this time.</p><p>“What’s in it for you?”</p><p>He leans back, tucking his hands behind his neck and propping his boots on the seat beside you. “Buy me breakfast, we’ll call it even.”</p><p>“Fine, it’s a deal.” </p><p>You shove his boots off the seat. He lets out that loud laugh again.</p><hr/><p>Stan’s car, in the light of day and without the veil of fear from last night, is a lot more cluttered than you remember. The floor is littered with a very specific kind of trash--straw wrappers, used scratch cards, and unused fast food napkins. The back seat has a sweatshirt, a blanket, and a cardboard box of cassette tapes. The latter of these is the thing you decide to comment on.</p><p>You drape your arm over the bench seat and pick up a tape. “You listen to a lot of music.”</p><p>“Used to spend a lot of time on the road. Plus, tapes are just so easy to lift.”</p><p>Lift as in <em> shoplift </em> ? You wouldn’t know, so you don’t argue. “ <em> Earth Wind and Fire, Sting, </em> oh, some <em> Billy Joel </em>. Little bit of variety.”</p><p>You see him shrug in the corner of your eye. “Sure. ‘S boring to listen to the same thing all the time. What do you like?”</p><p>You rummage through the tapes for another quiet moment. There’s a lot in here that you haven’t heard of, some stuff you know for sure you don’t like. “Ha, Hall and Oates. Classic.”</p><p>“Here,” Stan holds out his hand, so you give him the tape. He pulls out the one currently in the radio and tosses it over his shoulder, landing perfectly in the box. He plays the tape at a low volume--loud enough to hear, quiet enough to talk over still.</p><p>Both of you hum along to <em> Maneater </em> while he drives. You can’t help but smile a little bit as you do. Even though Stan’s speaking voice is very low and gravelly (he definitely smokes, even if his car doesn’t smell like it), his humming is deep and velvety-smooth. You absently wonder if he plays any instruments; he seems like the kind of guy who tried to form a band with the kids down the street.</p><p>He stops in the parking lot of a mini-golf course, and all you can do is stare at the sign. He can’t be serious.</p><p>“They don’t pay very well, but nobody does. You’ll probably have to get two part time jobs to make ends meet out here.”</p><p>You heave out a great big sigh. You haven't had <em> any </em> job in two years, you really don’t want to work two of them now.</p><p>“What, are you above it?”</p><p>You snap back to the present, head whipping around to face Stan. “<em> No </em>, I’m just...considering.”</p><p>He crosses his arms. “You from the city or somethin’? Cause if you go around here actin’ too high an’ mighty for a part-time job, these people are not going to take well to you.”</p><p>“Are you speaking from experience?” you snip back.</p><p>He barks a laugh, but this one isn’t loud or sincere. His eyes fix hard on you, and something dark has settled over him. “Pal, I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I ain’t ever been above minimum wage. There was a time I’d lick anyone’s boot for <em> pennies </em> . You <em> don’t </em> want to be there.”</p><p>You swallow dryly, and all of a sudden you’re reminded that you really don’t know this man at all. What are you doing? How stupid are you, to jump right out of the frying pan and into the fire? When are you ever gonna start using your head?</p><p>“Thanks for the ride.” You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder as you get out of the car, and you don’t turn around to look back.</p><p>The day is starting to heat up outside, but the small interior of the putt-putt store is dark and cool. Goosebumps prickle over your arms as you walk in and blink to adjust your eyes.</p><p>“Welcome to the Putt Hutt,” someone says half-heartedly from the back of the store. You follow the sound to a counter, where a teen is sitting with his feet propped on the counter and a magazine in his lap. You clear your throat, and all he does is lazily look up.</p><p>“I heard you were hiring. Is there any chance I can fill out an application?”</p><p>He closes the magazine. “Oh, sorry, they filled that position last week. I can still give you an application if you want though.”</p><p>With your hands braced on the counter, you hang your head and sigh. This is not the time or place to have a meltdown, but you’re starting to feel like it. “No thanks.”</p><p>He doesn’t even say anything else, just opens the magazine back up.</p><p>You stomp out of the Putt Hutt with a ball of ice in your stomach. This isn’t going well at all. Every single step since the one you took to get on the bus has gone horribly wrong. That old hag in the ticket booth probably set you up, that lady and her--her <em> knitting </em>.</p><p>As you burst out into the parking lot, now squinting in the sun, you see the red Diablo idling right where you left it. You cross your arms over your chest, trying to be angry that he’s still there. Who does this guy even think he is? And why the hell is he helping you? Maybe he really is a serial killer after all, and he’s just sizing you up for some new lampshades. You’ve sealed your own fate by giving him the idea, now you’re destined to be a permanent part of his Murder Hut. </p><p>He spots you outside the building and waves. </p><p>What kind of friendly motherfucker…</p><p>You stomp over to the car, throw open the passenger door, and slam it shut for good measure.</p><p>“Why are you still here?”</p><p>He shrugged. “It’s Wednesday. Don’t have anything better to do.”</p><p>“Don’t you have, like...friends or something?”</p><p>“Sorry, I try not to give personal information to people who won’t even tell me their <em> name </em>.”</p><p>You narrow your eyes at him. He’s got a point. “They filled the position,” you say instead. “Where to next?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: sit</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step two: order</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step three: eat</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This, at least, makes sense to you. Eating is just about the simplest thing about your life, the simplest and most comforting pleasure you have. Eating isn’t just a necessity, or a chore, it’s a hobby. It’s a task to be undertaken deliberately and delicately, which is exactly what you’re doing as you attack the mountain of nachos in front of you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You look up as you’re wiping sour cream from your chin and catch Stan staring.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” you mumble around your food. “Hungry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks. “Uh, yeah, I can tell. If I hadn’t personally seen you demolish those pancakes this morning, I’d think you were half starved.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You swallow your mouthful. “We skipped lunch!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a day of job hunting, zig-zagging across town and listening to quite a few cassettes, you’ve come up empty-handed. You filled out two applications while you were out, but Stan tells you you’re unlikely to get those jobs. There are kids in town on summer break from college that usually fill those roles. And since the owners know these kids, you’re far less likely to land the gig. Such is the way the cookie crumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Since the job hunt was fruitless, you insisted Stan pay up. He got a free breakfast in exchange for the promise of a job, and he failed to deliver. So you ended up at the only other restaurant in town, a little Mexican joint not far from where the day started off at. It’s only four in the afternoon, a little early for dinner, but like you said, you skipped lunch!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what’ll you do if you can’t find a job?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You examine the remainders of nachos on your plate very carefully. “I dunno. I came here to start over, but…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You ain't gonna make much of yourself here,” he says, finishing your sentence. “It’s a dead end.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You look up. “You’re here, you seem to be doing okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs. “I guess. I’m kinda stuck here though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You give him a questioning look, which he answers with a sad smile. “Family stuff,” he replies vaguely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hm. You can relate to a little bit of that, at least.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” he leans forward on his elbows, over his now-empty plate, “are you ever gonna tell me your name, or what?” He’s undone the top button of his shirt at some point. The shirt itself is some kind of vaguely floral, garishly neon pattern, and this angle gives you a view straight down the collar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You lean forward too, refocusing on his face. “Maybe I like the mystique.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then I get to pick a name for you. I’m gonna call you…” he looks you up and down--or, at least what he can see of you above the table. “Spot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You snort. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Spot</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, okay. Is Lucky better?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not a stray dog!” you laugh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucky it is, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, fine.” You give him your name quietly, trying not to cringe as it rolls off your tongue. Saying your own name has always felt weird to you, but it’s especially so now. It’s like </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> tainted it, for all the times he shouted it and moaned it and whispered it. When you say your name, you hear it echoed back in a thousand voices and a thousand tones. You hate it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somehow, he seems to pick up on that. “Is that what you like to go by?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shrug. “I dunno. Nobody’s ever asked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He thinks in silence for a moment. “Well, if you’re here to start over, you might as well go all in, right? What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be called?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You almost laugh, but you know he’s serious, and the more you think about it the more the idea grows on you. You spend your own moment in silence, thinking hard. “Well, I’ve always liked the name Charlie. It’s--well, it’s androgynous. I like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve got it, Charles,” he says with a dead-straight face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You kick him under the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he laughs, “Charlie it is. It suits ya.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You smile--really </span>
  <em>
    <span>smile</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It feels like the first real one you’ve had since the divorce. He leans back, still also smiling. For a moment you just smile at each other like idiots, then you clear your throat and stand. You don’t know why you're standing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, I’m going to the bathroom,” you announce.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the dim light of this restaurant, with Spanish music playing in the background and the food buzz in you...Stan Pines is kind of attractive.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>He drives you back to Martha’s house, because your suitcase is still there and you have nowhere else to go anyway. Parked on the curb in front of the house, Stan puts his arm over the back of the seat and turns to face you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry about the whole...job thing. I been there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod, not really sure what else to say. “I’ll try again tomorrow, but if I can’t find something soon…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you have somewhere else to go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shrug. “My sister’s place. I was staying with her before I came here, but, uh, I’d rather not go back.” Because he lives there, and he knows your sister is there too, and you don’t want to see him. And a restraining order isn’t enough to keep him away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan lets out a long, loud sigh that turns into a groan somewhere toward the end. Then he drags his hand over his face, and steels his gaze on you. “Alright, hear me out. My place, it’s got lotsa extra rooms. I could use some help around the Hut, and, well, I dunno. You seem like you might have some good ideas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you offering me a job?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grimaces. “Not really. I don’t really make enough money for the mortgage </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> cost of living </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> an employee. But I have a place to stay, and I can probably afford to feed ya.” He pauses. “I think I can, anyway. You’ve got a hell of an appetite.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This isn’t what you want. It's not on that checklist you keep in your head, the one where you prove you’re an independent person and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> make it on your own. But this town is a dead end, Stan said it himself, and you aren’t ready to go back to your sister with your tail between your legs. Not yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is there a long term to this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, this month’s the biggest on tourists. If we can get some good exhibits together, boost prices...I could afford to pay you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No funny business?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He huffs out an offended breath. “Definitely fucking not. I’m not that kinda guy, Charlie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod. You roll the idea around in your head for a few moments, then give Stan a smile. “Let me think about it, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods, satisfied with that answer. “Hey, if you come by the Hut tomorrow I’ll give ya a tour, no charge.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You open the car door and pause long enough to give him a smile. “Thanks. Goodnight Stan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives a lazy salute, and that’s the last you see before he pulls away from the curb. Martha’s waiting on the porch like your mother would when you missed curfew, even though the sun hasn’t even set. You watch the exhaust from the Diablo dissipate in the cloying summer evening.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This is getting out of hand very fast.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote ten thousand words of this story in one five hour sitting that started at midnight. None of that matters, but it's important to me that you know this.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Step one: Get job </p><p>Step two: Find a <em> different </em> job as soon as possible</p><p>Step three: Move out of Stan Pines’s house and into an apartment of your own, also as soon as possible</p><p> </p><p>Martha feeds you breakfast this time, seemingly a little less annoyed about the bed and breakfast situation. She eats with you and chatters the whole while. You learn that her husband (Richard) passed away a few years ago, her son (Donnie) doesn’t visit because he hates this town, and her cat (Margaret) has a disturbing new habit of pooping just to the left of her litter box, instead of inside it.</p><p>Finally, her eyes roll over to the door, where your suitcase is waiting. Packed and ready to go. “So, you’re leaving then?”</p><p>You gulp down your bite of dry toast. “Yes Ma’am. I, well, Stan Pines offered me a job--”</p><p>“You stay away from that man if you know what’s good for you, child.”</p><p>You consider protesting the ‘child’ bit before deciding that’s far from the most important thing she just said. “Why?”</p><p>She leans in conspiratorially, as if you aren’t the only two people in the whole house. Well, you and Margaret the cat. “He’s a real weirdo, that one. Lived out in the woods for six years and we barely heard a peep from him, then last year he decides he’s going to rejoin society. Opens up a tourist trap! Pah!” She flings her hands dramatically, as if that’s the dirtiest crime a man could commit. “He’s a strange one, you’d best steer clear.”</p><p>That’s hardly something to watch out for. Maybe he’s just a little introverted. You know how that is, taking a while to warm up to a new place or people. So he had a hermit phase! That’s totally normal for guys in their thirties, right? Right. You don’t say any of this to Martha, of course, who has begun attacking her scrambled eggs and mumbling to herself about the so-called Murder Hut.</p><p>Maybe it’s best not to ask her for a ride.</p><hr/><p>You manage to walk to Greasy’s before realizing you don’t have another mile of walking in you. You collapse at the bar of the diner with your backpack and suitcase on the floor behind you. The waitress--Sarah? Suzy. Susan!--puts a glass of water in front of you.</p><p>“Pretty hot out there today, ain’t it sweet cheeks?”</p><p>You gulp half the glass in one go, then nod breathlessly.</p><p>“Are you moving on from Gravity Falls, then?” she asks in her nasally tone. You might not be familiar with this particular woman, but you know her type. Friendly, harmless, avid gossiper. Anything you tell her will be all over the town before sundown, you’re sure of it, so you pick your words very carefully.</p><p>“Not yet. I’m actually trying to go to the Murder Hut? Stan said he’d give me a tour today.”</p><p>“Oh!” She squawks in delight. “Well Dan here can give you a ride, can’t he?” She nudges a rather burly young man at the other end of the bar, and you only just now realize he’s been listening intently.</p><p>He nods. “I got time.”</p><p>Those are the first and last words you hear out of Dan for the duration of the ride. He drives in total, intimidating silence, and you don’t dare question it. When you get out of the pickup truck, you wave goodbye and thanks, and he says nothing. Just drives away.</p><p>Weird guy.</p><p>You turn toward this famed Murder Hut and stare for a moment. You’d been imagining something...different? Smaller, to be sure. The word <em> hut </em> doesn't inspire images of looming, dark-wooded cabins in the middle of the woods, that’s for sure. This is starting to look a little less serial killer and a little more <em> Alabama Hedgetrimmer Massacre </em>.</p><p>You enter through the door that’s hanging on by one hinge with the sign that says “ENTER HERE”. It seems like a safe bet. It leads to a small room, what looks like it might be a gift shop, with weird stuff lining the walls. You can’t even think of a more concise way to say it, it’s just <em> weird stuff </em>. Jars of eyeballs, old books, some kind of Tesla-coil looking contraption, a skeleton wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a display of weird, garish, and gory postcards. Beside what appears to be an antique cash register, there are bins of keychains.</p><p>And, yeah, this is a tourist trap. Maybe…not even a good one. </p><p>You hear Stan before you see him. His booming voice and hearty laugh preceed him before he bursts through a door at the end of the room, leading a small group of tourists. “And now, the scariest attraction of them all; the urge to empty your wallet!” He wiggles his fingers in a spooky motion, particularly aimed at a couple of kids at the front of the group. They giggle. “Make sure your parents getcha a souvenir!”</p><p>He makes it all the way to the cash register before he notices you, and then his face lights up. “Charlie!” he exclaims, arms spread wide. </p><p>A smile automatically spreads across your face at your new name. You go to the counter so he doesn't have to leave his register, and at his beckoning, you come to stand behind it with him. For a second, you're afraid he's going to hug you and you feel your whole body stiffen. Instead, he opens the register and starts sorting bills into the drawer.</p><p>“I was startin’ to think you weren't coming.”</p><p>You click your tongue at him. “Tch, impatient.”</p><p>He laughs. “It's four o’clock, I don't think that's unreasonable.”</p><p>Shoot, is it really that late? You're more out of shape than you thought if it took you four hours to cross town.</p><p>“Soon as these goons finish up, I’ll give ya the grand tour.”</p><p>You lean on the end of the counter and watch him interact with the customers. He’s wearing an absolutely garish outfit; a white button-down shirt with dark red splotches all over, which are probably supposed to look like blood, a bow tie and fez to match, and navy pants. Oh, and you can't forget the suspenders. He looks like some unholy cross between Willy Wonka and a weird old man. When you notice the maroon jacket slung across the stool behind the counter, you nearly lose your damn mind. Who taught this man how to dress?</p><p>He's especially fond of the kids, you can tell from just a few moments watching. He gives them extra attention and goes out of his way to get their laughter. You wonder if it's because happy kids generate money from happy parents, or if he just likes kids that much. </p><p><em> He </em>didn't like kids.</p><p>Wait, when did you start comparing them, anyway? That’s a bad idea, and a slippery slope. You consciously move on from the thought. When the last customer is through the door, he carefully steps around you to lock it. He has to pull it closed just so, since the top hinge is busted. The lock is the only thing that holds it all straight.</p><p>Can't afford an employee, indeed.</p><p>You can't help yourself. As soon as he turns back toward you, you ask, “What’s with the getup?”</p><p>He holds his arms out and does a little spin for you. It has the desired effect of making you laugh. “You don't like it? It's my Mister Murder costume.”</p><p>“Well, it sure does make me want to commit murder.”</p><p>He snorts. “Alright, geez, what are you, some kinda fashion police?” He takes the fez off and leaves it on the counter. You have a sudden urge to ruffle his hat hair, mostly just because it looks horrible. “Alright,” he clears this throat, “come one, come all to the Murder Hut! Let me bewilder you with tales of woe, and tragedy--”</p><p>“Same thing.”</p><p>“--shut up--and mystery!” he bellows. He swings open the door that the tour group came through and gestures you inside first.</p><p>Not unlike the Putt Hut from yesterday, the room is dark and cool. It smells like wood polish and dust. Stan leads you around and shows you his various attractions. Some of them are genuinely funny, and some of them make you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. But that makes <em> him </em>laugh, so it's not an altogether bad thing.</p><p>The tour goes around the room in a big circle, ending right where it began. You’re pretty surprised to find that he did, in fact, manage to occupy a solid forty-five minutes. What he lacks in physical displays, he more than makes up for in showmanship.</p><p>He unbuttons his shirt all the way down as you exit the showroom in favor of the gift shop. For the first time, his form-fitting undershirt shows you that he has a little bit of a soft belly. For some reason, you find that incredibly endearing.</p><p>“So, what do you think?”</p><p>“You know what, it's really not as bad as I was expecting.”</p><p>He feigns shock, then offense. “You wound me, Charles.”</p><p>You want to correct him right away, but the way he said it sends you laughing instead. You’re doubled over before you know it, and when you finally get ahold of yourself he looks like he’s going to split his face grinning so wide.</p><p>“You think you can help me fix the place up?”</p><p>You nod, trying to put your serious face back on. “Yeah, I think we can manage. You’re good at talking.” You stammer for a second, trying to recover. “I—I mean, you're good at making people want to listen. A good...speaker.”</p><p>He’s unfazed. “Thanks.” He grabs your luggage from beside the door, where you had all but forgotten it, and then heads through another door. This one says “employees only”, and until he tells you to follow him, you thought it was just a supply closet or something.</p><p>The door actually leads into a kitchen on the left, and a den on the right. It’s cozy, with slightly outdated shag carpeting and a few comfortable chairs arranged around a TV. The kitchen is as full of weird stuff as the gift shop is, but rustic and charming all the same.</p><p>“Wow, this is nice.”</p><p>He sets your luggage down in the mouth of a dark hallway that surely leads to more rooms. “Thanks. It’s, uh...well, it’s mine now I guess.”</p><p>You're not quite sure what that means, or what to say in response. Thankfully you don't have to figure it out, because Stan seems eager to move on. </p><p>He claps his hands together and pulls out a kitchen chair for you before sitting himself down at the table. “So. I know I said I couldn't pay you, but I redid the books last night, moved some stuff around—”</p><p>“Oh, Stan you don't have to—”</p><p>He holds up a hand to stop you. “It's fine. It’s not much, but it's something. Five dollars an hour.”</p><p>You're pretty sure that's a little bit below the minimum wage, so you decide to let it go. Instead, you smile. “Thanks.” It's gonna make steps two and three of your plan a lot easier if you can scrounge up a few dollars’ savings. Thinking about how little money you currently have to your name is...upsetting, to say the least.</p><p>“I got a room all set up for you. Uh, I don't really...have another mattress, so I put up an air mattress.” He looks a little sheepish, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Oh, I've slept on worse. Don't worry about it too much.”</p><p>He nods a confirmation. “Okay. Then it’s settled?”</p><p>“Yes sir, mister boss sir. All except one thing.”</p><p>A look of genuine concern flits across his features. “What's that?”</p><p>“The Murder Hut? Yeah, that name’s gotta go. <em> Pronto </em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW for panic attacks and PTSD symptoms!</p><p>I have this story written up to chapter 10 right now. Technically there's no reason I can't post them all at once.........but here we are</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: Rename Murder Hut</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step two: Advertise aggressively </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step Three: Acquire capital</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You eat your words when you wake up sore and stiff. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I've slept on worse, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No really, the air mattress is fine,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you said. Well your body is in its thirties now and apparently air mattresses don't work as well as they did a decade ago. Your neck hurts, your back is stiff, and you're feeling a little bit cranky overall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a second to navigate yourself to the bathroom. Stan showed it all to you last night, but this hallway is poorly lit and all these damn doors look the same from the outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's seven in the morning when you stumble into the kitchen, seeking caffeine to replace your lost sleep. At the same time, Stan bumbles in from the gift shop door, and you stop to stare at each other for a moment. He’s only wearing boxers and a tank top.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couldn't sleep,” he grumbles. His voice is even thicker and rougher than usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couldn't sleep,” you reply, affirming. Then, with a hopeful voice, “Coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods once. “Mm. Coffee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thirty minutes and two cups of coffee later, both of you are much more awake. “Goodmorning,” Stan says, like he's just really woken up. “Good to know we can still communicate if the government collapses and we can only afford one-word sentences.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You try to puzzle that one over, scowling into your coffee, and eventually have to write it off. “Your house is creaky,” you say. “Stuff was moving around all night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be the haunted wax figures.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” He innocently returns the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, you decide, is far too early in the morning for Stan Pines. But it's too late to go back to bed now, so instead you just...slowly slump to the table. You put your forehead on your arm and close your eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan gets up and starts moving around in the kitchen, but now you're too comfy to care what he’s up to. The fridge opens and closes behind you. There’s a clatter from a cabinet. Stan swears, there's a louder, less intentional clatter. Some time later, there’s a sizzle and the smell of bacon hits your nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lazily loll your head to the side. “Mmmbacon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans over you, smiling. Even with the bags under his eyes and his dark hair mussed from sleep, you cannot deny he’s handsome.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's too </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuckin early</span>
  </em>
  <span> for this.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“Maze of Mystery!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's not a maze.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hall of Wonders.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa Pines’s Peculiar Place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flick up from the notepad to your face, clearly trying to gauge your level of seriousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today is slower than Stan expected. There’s been exactly one tour group which purchased exactly two souvenirs, so all you've really done so far is sit alone in the gift shop and listen to Stan’s booming voice, and learn to use the cash register. Which, really, you could have figured out by yourself. Now you're sitting on the wood counter and he’s sitting on the stool against the wall. You've got a notepad with what must be twenty scribbled out names, and now you're just getting bored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Papa Pines,” he deadpans. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shrug. Smile devilishly. “Some girls like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You immediately regret the suggestive comment, because his face turns three shades of red. Besides, that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the kind of relationship you want. Curse your natural good-looks and exemplary flirting skills.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let's try something else. Tell me what you think of when I say </span>
  <em>
    <span>murder.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mason Hoorvees,” Stan blurts out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink. “Okay, try again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Murder</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“H...hhhhut...” He hangs his head. “I'm no good at this, it's useless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you've shot down all my good ideas already!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tacky’s Taxidermy Emporium was your good idea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” you point at him with your pen, “do not underestimate the power of alliteration.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I don't know what that means</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says, leaning in closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You close the inch of a gap between the pen and his nose, leaving a dot of blue ink there. He jumps back, surprised. “That is why I'm in charge of the wordsmithing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You go back to your notepad, scribbling down </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Mason Hoorvees?’</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>In the resulting lack of inspiration, you write out the current name in your best penmanship, which admittedly isn't much. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Murder Hut</span>
  </em>
  <span> fills the page in elegant scrolls. “Y’know, this place isn't much of a hut. It's a cabin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but nobody wants to visit the murder cabin. That’s just...boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You snort and look up at him. “What's so much more interesting about a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hut</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “I dunno, it’s...exotic? You don't go to cabins for vacation unless you're super boring. Huts are on beaches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate to break it to you Stan, but huts are small. By definition. And this place is anything but small.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what’s another word for hut?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhh, shed? Shack?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snapped his fingers and points at you, body suddenly full of electric excitement. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I like that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Murder Shack?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He withdraws his hands and cups his broad chin, deep in thought. “No, we gotta get rid of the murder thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, at the beginning of the tours you say it’s full of mystery. What about--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Mystery Shack,” he finishes, grinning. “That's it, that’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span> you little genius!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jumps to his feet and grabs your shoulders. You instinctively flinch, but he must not notice because in the next instant he’s hugging you. And his arms are thick as tree trunks and his body is broad and his shoulders are strong, you can feel the muscles through his button-down, and it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>suffocating</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The room spins as you're stuck there, sitting on the counter and trapped. When he finally lets go, you release a pent up breath in a rush and nearly totter right off the counter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoa,” he says, steadying you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You flinch away, jarring a bin of keychains at your elbow. You have to get out, get away, </span>
  <em>
    <span>right the hell now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without anywhere else to go, you give his chest a shove with the flat of your forearm. He moves, but only because he wants to. Dammit he’s strong. The bell over the door chimes as you burst out into the thick afternoon air and you don't stop running until you can't hear him shouting anymore.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW for panic attacks and implied abuse!</p><p>The reason I keep updating like this is because HunkleJunk is peer pressuring me  I'm gonna call the tumblr cops :'(</p><p>(Stay horny babe ;D)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: Breathe, breathe, breathe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you have to breathe you stupid idiot</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Step Two: Tactile. That was the word the book used. Knot your fingers into the tree bark and grip until you bleed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step Three: Stop shaking. You’re in the middle of nowhere in Oregon, and Stan is a friend. He’s a friend, and he isn't going to hurt you.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, you ease your fingers out of the tree bark. You’re relieved to find that you didn't draw as much blood as you thought—most of it is tree sap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit down heavily in the pine needles, sap-free hand tangling in your hair somewhere near your temple. This hasn't happened in weeks, not since everything was final with the divorce. You thought you were past this. You thought you were stronger than this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As those thoughts begin to overwhelm, your breathing speeds up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Touch something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ground yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, what an idiot. Stan’s going to think you’re demented, he might be packing up your things right now while you sit here. Tears prick hot and shameful at the corners of your eyes. Forgetting, you swipe sap across them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cry out in frustration. Your voice falters and cracks, and then that one angry yell turns into a hiccuped sob. That's the only one you allow to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your sister was so much better at guiding you through this than you are at doing it for yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You startle at the crunch of pine needles to your left. Stan’s only a few feet away, watching you like you're a scared animal instead of...you. Maybe that’s all </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> are now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crouches down. “I'm sorry,” falls from his lips in a quick tumble. He repeats it, more deliberately. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You loosen your hold on your arms around your knees, only to look a little less small and pathetic. This is embarrassing. “I'm fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts his head to the side, but he doesn't question you or correct you. He just stands, approaches one slow step at a time, and holds his hand out gingerly. “Do you need a hand getting up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You reach up and take his hand, and he hauls you to your feet like you weigh no more than a grain of rice. Your knees are shaking, but you can see straight again so you consider that improvement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You walk back to the cabin silently. You slip to the side when you enter the gift shop door, and Stan leads the way into the kitchen. You follow dumbly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls out a chair again, and you sit. He puts a tepid cup of coffee in front of you, then a cup of water almost as an afterthought. You don't touch either of them, but he sits down beside you and holds out a wet washcloth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You've got sap on your face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wipe the blood from your fingertips first, hoping that'll go unnoticed, then scrape the layer of sticky off your cheeks and eyelids. The cool water is a relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sip at the water while you sit in silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanna talk about it?” His voice is quieter than you’d have thought possible when he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” you eke out. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, don’t be. I...I know what that’s like. I won't touch again.” He crosses his heart. That elicits a small smile from you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks Stan.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>It only takes you and Stan a few days to settle into a routine. In the morning, he makes the coffee and you drool on the table. While he’s guiding the noon tour, you slip into the kitchen and throw together some sandwiches or heat up leftovers for lunch. At first, Stan insists he cooks dinner. It's his house, he says, and you're his guest. But that fades pretty quick when he goes into town for some essentials (two people go through soda and toilet paper so much faster than one) and you cook dinner on the sly while he’s out. He comes back to the smell of homemade pasta sauce and asks if his nose is hallucinating, because that smells just like his Ma’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up to now, the conversation between you two has stayed pretty work-oriented. There’s been a lot to do in changing the name of his business, and you like to keep busy. But now you're just waiting for new signs and stickers from the printer, and next Wednesday you've planned to replace that terrible one-hinged door and give the gift shop a much needed facelift. As you two sit over dinner, there’s nothing work-related left to talk about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you from?” You blurt out. He sure as hell isn't from Gravity Falls, so it seems like a safe question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up over his plate, like he's surprised you asked. “Uh, Jersey. Small town, Glass Shard Beach. Heh, lived above my Pa’s pawn shop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, so you’ve been in the swindling business for some time now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs. “Born and raised, guilty as charged. What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You tell him where you're from, how you ended up in Oregon as a kid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you had a sister too, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. She’s got a house down south of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods and shovels another bite into his mouth. You can tell there’s a question on the tip of his tongue, and part of you wants him to ask it. The other part of you knows that Stanford does, in fact, possess some tact. So if he isn't asking, it's because he knows he shouldn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Curiosity wins out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs nonchalantly. “I was gonna ask, uh, if you’re seeing anyone or whatever. But that's none a’ my business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. That. You set your fork down on your plate and find you can't look back up to meet his eyes. “I'm divorced, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “See, I knew I shouldn’t’a asked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No it’s fine. Really, I'm definitely over it. No lost love there.” You plaster a smile and look back up. “What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, one time in Vegas,” This isn't gonna end well. “I, too, got divorced. Well, sorta. The marriage was never legally binding because she didn't give her real name, because she was just trying to steal my car. I don't think that counts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh. “Uh, no, I don't think it does.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts his napkin on top of his empty plate and reaches across to grab yours too. He makes the short walk to the sink and back. “Other than that, I've been pretty unlucky in love, I guess you could say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bite down the funny-flirty comments that rise to your tongue. You've really got to get a handle on that automatic-flirt response, it's gonna get you in trouble. Instead, you just hum out a noncommittal reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you used to cook for him?” There's a strange look in his eye as he waits for an answer. You can't quite place it, or what it’s trying to say. Sometimes Stan is just like that—unreadable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hands fold beneath your chin, elbows on the table. “Yes. I stayed at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He purses his lips and traces his finger around a pattern on the vinyl tabletop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn't supposed to. We actually met at school, and he proposed after we graduated...I never even got a job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He sounds like a real piece of work. No offense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raps his knuckles on the tabletop, effectively getting your attention. “Hey, I don't want you thinking' you gotta earn your keep around here or somethin’. You work out there”—he jabs a thumb toward the gift shop door, then puts a pointer finger down on the table—“and you live in here. If you like to cook, go for it. Mi casa es su casa. But I won't have ya tryna act like some kinda housekeeper. Got it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks so serious. His thick brows are drawn close over his eyes, head tilted ever so slightly to the side as he waits for your answer. He’s goddamn adorable. You swallow the lump in your throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I got it.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: The customer is always right</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step two: What’s that Stan? Fuck the customer, you say?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step three: I'm sorry ma’am I'm going to have to ask you to leave before I call the police on your insane ass.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Working in the tourism industry, you decide, is a sucky way to make a living. Stan’s very firm ‘no refunds’ policy makes it worse too. For some reason, the middle aged women and their snot-nosed children never think Stan is the owner, so they come to you when he’s said something offensive or they’re just generally displeased.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A lot of people are just generally displeased.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’ve been yelled at by one too many permed up power moms today, and by the time Stan comes out of the showroom with the last tour, you’re ready to drop kick him into the parking lot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His easy smile falls away when your eyes meet and he goes through a short cycle of emotions. First, confusion, then fear, and then he lands on </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He turns on his heel and walks right back into the showroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Good choice, Pines.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You ring up the knick-knacks, shove the last few customers out the door, and sag in relief once the door is locked behind them. In blissful, lonesome silence, you count the till, straighten the shelves, and sweep the floor. The last two of those chores weren’t assigned to you by Stan--actually, you’re not sure Stan’s ever done either of them, which is exactly why you’ve made a habit of it. The showroom is his responsibility though, and he takes that seriously. Display shelves are dusted meticulously, the floor is mopped and polished once weekly, and the lights are kept off whenever he isn’t in there. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once you’re done, you move to the kitchen. With a glass of water that you wish was something stronger, you slump into a chair and sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it safe?” Stan asks from the doorway. His fez and eyeballs are all you can see through the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stamp down the smile that starts to come over you. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sits down across from you and plops the fez down in the center of the table. “We made a lot of dough today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm,” you hum. It’s an agreement, not an encouragement for more conversation. Stan doesn’t take the hint.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A lot of kids, huh? I guess the place </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> gotten a little more kid-friendly since you came around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time, you don’t respond at all. You’re tired, and cranky, and you don’t feel like talking. You’re staring off at the table, patterns fading to fuzz.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan raps his knuckles on the table, then disappears back into the hallway. You assume he’s gone to his room, maybe to change, maybe to hide from your stormcloud mood. You can’t bother yourself to care too much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That is, until he comes back and plops a bucket of assorted pencils and markers on the table, along with a stack of printer paper. Where--why does he even have this? Are there secret kids wandering around in here, or is </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> the child?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls a red pencil out of the bucket and starts sketching. You watch him out of the corner of your eye because dammit, now you’re intrigued. Under his feather-light strokes, the shack begins to take form. Its looming triangles and dark wood look a lot less imposing in the soft red pencil lines.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You prop your hand on your chin while you watch. His tongue is stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. It’s not an exact replica, the proportions are a little off, but it’s ten times better than you could do. Especially without so much as looking at the shack first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The red pencil is traded for a blue one, and he starts sketching a big rectangle on top of the roof. You realize as he draws that he’s making a sign. MYSTERY SHACK in big, bold letters on top.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re very good,” you murmur.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs instantly. “Yeah, sure. What do you think of the sign?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No really Stan, that’s a good drawing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls back to examine it for a moment. He shakes his head. “Nah, you should see my brother’s art. He’s--” he gulps, tripping over the words. “He’s way better than me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You put your finger on the corner of the page and turn it toward yourself. You’re not going to argue with him, because you know that if someone is convinced of an idea like Stan is, you can’t change their mind that easily. Without another word, you give the paper back to him and pull a new one toward yourself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You choose a purple marker at random and set to drawing. Even using his drawing as a reference, you end up with a blocky, chunky monstrosity of a thing. You continue to copy his idea of a sign on the roof, but yours is bigger and you separate it into two signs. One for MYSTERY, one for SHACK. He’s watching you, now. For good measure, you put a sign over the gift shop door too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm, good idea. Gotta let ‘em know where to throw their money,” he muses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You push the paper toward him. “Think you could make a composite?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blinks blankly at the papers. “You mean, put ‘em together?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Geez, watch it with those five dollar words. Gonna need a dictionary to hang out with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he’s trying to get you to laugh, he’s succeeding. You watch more intently as he makes this second sketch. This time, he uses the proper colors for everything. The signs on top of the building are mustard yellow and ketchup red, which you find an odd combo, but it’s the color scheme that you see him drawn to over and over again. If that’s true to his vision, you aren’t about to question it. On the sign over the gift shop door, he adds some little details around the edge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he’s done, you hold it up against the light streaming in from the kitchen window. It’s actually really pretty.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can make it look like this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts his head beside yours to look at it from your angle. “You think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod. “I know we can. It’ll take a little elbow grease.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lucky for you, I have extremely greasy elbows.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That gives you a snort. “TMI, Stan.” You scoot out from your chair and press the drawing to the fridge, sticking it there with a magnet from a pizza delivery place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ducks his head toward the table and--is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>blushing</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Oh god, now you’re blushing too. Is it really that easy to get on this guy’s good side?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sit back down and take another piece of paper, absently doodling. He follows suit after a moment. You doodle and laugh right through dinner, and by the time the sun’s set, you’re four to one at tic-tac-toe.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Knocking on the door startles you from sleep. You sit up with a jolt, rubbing sleep from your eyes. More knocks sound into the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan, it's Wednesday!” You whine. The alarm on the floor says it's six in the morning, and you're so much less than thrilled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opens the door and sticks his head in, hand slapped over his eyes. “We’re goin’ to the flea market.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck for?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs. “Everything! Haven't you ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the flea market?” He looks ridiculous with his eyes covered up like that. It's not like you're indecent, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You had big plans today, to sleep in, go to Greasy’s for a lunch you didn't have to cook yourself, and read that book you've been meaning to. Big, important, </span>
  <em>
    <span>comfortable</span>
  </em>
  <span> plans. “Do you really need me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice lowers an octave. “Yes baby, I need you so bad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You throw your pillow, hitting him square on the face. He doesn't seem to care as he giggles. “Gimme ten minutes. There’d better be coffee out there,” you grumble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He blindly throws the pillow back and shuts the door. Good thing he never looked, because your face is beet red. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twenty minutes later, you’re draped over the passenger seat of the Diablo, rifling through tapes. The windows are rolled down, Stan's humming even though you haven't chosen a tape yet, and maybe getting out of bed at six was worth it after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my god, you listen to Aerosmith?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan snorts. “I listen to anything I can fit in my pocket on the way out the door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> steal the tapes! You wish you could bring yourself to be, like, morally indignant or something, but it just makes you laugh. Maybe the coffee hasn't kicked in yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You turn back around in the seat. “Alright, we got the Ramones, we got The Who, and we got AC/DC. Pick your poison.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You hold the three tapes out to Stan and he blindly picks the one from the middle. AC/DC.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the rock music in the background, Stan whizzes past the sign for Gravity Falls. You haven't been outside the small town since you arrived, you're actually a little excited to do something different for once.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You end up an hour outside the town at a large fairground. There are signs everywhere for the flea market—apparently it’s a once-monthly kinda deal. There are tents, carts, plastic tables, even food vendors. Your eyes fix on the snow cone truck while Stan’s parking in the grass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once the car’s in park, Stan chuckles behind you. “It's like you've never seen people before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So the stars in your eyes are that obvious. “It’s just—exciting! There's so much junk to rifle through.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure is. Come on, let’s get riflin’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As you walk toward the first row of vendors, Stan flashes a list toward you. A non-busted screen door, any chunks of wood large enough to make signs with, anything that looks vaguely cursed, and only the worst, most hilariously bad taxidermy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God, you love your job.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the day wanes on and the sun grows hotter, Stan makes a couple of trips back to the car to store away assorted treasures. He’s good at haggling, and watching him is a blast. If he’s got a gentle woman, he’ll charm her half to death and rob her blind. You find he’ll just as quickly charm men, too, and end up with a wallet for his effort. You make him put the wallets back. Sometimes when he gets arguing with someone who doesn’t want to budge, he’ll square his shoulders and stand to his full height. He’s built like a linebacker, his posture makes it easy to forget that. You’re pretty sure he isn't trying to physically intimidate them, but it usually makes whoever he’s bargaining with shut down completely. He doesn’t get whatever it was he was haggling for, not even at full price.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sit at a picnic table on the edge of the fairground with hotdogs and onion rings and soda, and a snow cone that you’re shoveling into your mouth before it can melt. You feel Stan’s eyes on you as you do so--you always feel his eyes on you. Oddly, it doesn’t intimidate you or make you blush or anything, it’s actually kind of comforting. You haven't seen him in action yet, but Stan just feels like the kinda guy who’d kick the ass of anyone that tried to mess with you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You don’t meet his eyes again until you’ve finished the snow cone. He pushes your hotdog toward you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you hot?” you ask. He’s holding his soda to the back of his neck like an ice pack, hair held to the side. It's a little too long in the front to be a mullet, long enough that it spends most of its time tucked behind his ears, but you can tell that it </span>
  <em>
    <span>used</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be a mullet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He winks, cheeks ruddy from the heat, and flashes you a smile. “I dunno, am I?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cheeky bastard. “Maybe you should cut your hair?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Meh, I've thought about it. There’s only one barber in town and honestly, he’s like eight hundred years old. I’m not sure I trust ‘im.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, yeah, I don’t blame you for that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He carries on. “Besides, I’ve been too busy with the shack and--uh, my other projects.” He shrugs. “Priorities.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’ve thought to mention it before, since his hair is, well, it’s really fuckin’ long. It’s almost down between his shoulder blades, and he has curly hair so you’re sure it’s longer when it’s wet. You kept your mouth shut because how he styles his hair is not even close to being your business, but now it’s clearly bothering him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stand up and hold a finger out to him to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>just a sec</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You jog over to the nearest food vendor and cut the line to ask the girl behind the counter, “Do you have a rubber band?” She gives you a weird look, but says she’ll check. Sure enough, she hands over a thick blue rubber band, the kind used to wrap produce. You thank her and jog right back over to Stan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks at the rubber band, then looks hopelessly up at you. “What am I supposed to do with this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sigh dramatically and roll your eyes. “I have to do everything, don’t I?” You stand behind him and gather the monstrosity of soft waves on his shoulders. You wonder briefly if he has some Italian genes or something, with how thick and dark his hair is. With a few quick flicks of your wrist and the snap of a rubber band, you have Stan’s hair in a fluffy little bun at the base of his neck. It's not perfect, but it’ll keep him cool.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches back to touch it once you’ve sat down. “Do I look stupid?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You tilt your head, looking him over and thinking it through. “I don’t think so. It shows off that jawline.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both of you flush. You chalk it up to the heat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After lunch, you prowl the last few areas you haven’t seen. Stan picks up an old cloth doll that looks cursed as hell, you find a diorama of taxidermy mice in lab coats who appear to be brewing something nefarious. He finds a ceramic pitcher with a disturbingly realistic, not at all happy human face, you find a dusty jar of preserved iridescent beetles. Stan carries it all in a cardboard box he picked up somewhere, he pays for most of it, it's good times. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Just when you’re about ready to head out, something catches your eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan trails behind you without complaint as you veer off to the right, already bending over to look at the treasures nestled in shredded paper. They’re little hand-blown glass animals, all brightly colored and expressive. It’s a random assortment; there’s a blue seahorse, a red dragon, a couple of multicolored hens, an orange octopus, and a beautiful large stag. Stan’s face appears beside yours. “What are they?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Little critters,” you say, prodding the octopus’s round head with your finger. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, I guess? They’re tiny.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, think of how careful you must have to be to make them.” At the sight of the price tag on the basket, your eyes nearly bug out of your head. “Hm, talented and filthy rich, apparently.” You straighten up and turn back toward the car. You expect Stan to follow, but when you turn around he’s still staring at them. “Are you coming?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns around and flaps a hand at you. “Yeah, yeah, don’t have a cow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When you get to the car, he tosses you the keys to the Diablo so you can pop the trunk. He nestles the box in with the other delightfully odd treasures you’ve curated, then slides into the front seat. He takes a second to start the car and mess with the knobs on the air conditioning and radio, then looks at you expectantly. He’s got a little smirk on his face that just screams trouble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He withdraws his hands from his pockets and three delicate, brightly colored glass animals stand in each of his palms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You gasp and take the little animals like he’s stolen a baby. They really are more beautiful in the light, out of that basket. “Stan, you stole them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, the old crone sellin’ ‘em won’t miss ‘em. Besides, they seemed to really like you.” He pets the head of the tiny dragon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A grin spreads across your face, you can’t help it. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shrugs. “No big deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You carefully hold the animals until you get home, where you immediately run inside to put them somewhere safe. Your first instinct is to go to your room with them, but that doesn’t seem right. You hardly spend any time in there unless you’re sleeping. You turn toward the kitchen window, letting in the last rays of sunlight for the day in bright, warm swaths across the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One by one, the animals are lined up on the windowsill. There’s plenty of room for them to sit without being knocked off, and they look dazzling in the sun. Stan pauses behind you, box in arm, while you’re admiring them. “Looks nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It definitely, </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> looks nice.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>These idiots are dating and they don't even know it (this is my favoritest chapter so far)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to post some fic again.....<br/>Trigger warnings! Trigger warnings, trigger warnings. So there's referenced abuse and actual alcohol. Also HunkleJunk is making fan art for this fic and all day I've just been 👀👀👀 at my inbox</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: Weren't you supposed to be looking for a different job?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step two: And a place to live?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step Three: You just can't imagine being alone anymore, after a month of morning coffee with Stan.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tourist season begins to wind down in August. What was simple and comfortable for a few weeks is now becoming a gnawing source of anxiety in your stomach. Every morning you wake up and wonder why you’re still here as you stare at the spinning fan and rough-hewn wooden ceiling. You resolve to call your sister later, and you never do because what will you tell her? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey sis, you nursed me back to health for months and as soon as you turned me loose I just went right into the arms of a new man, thanks.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She deserves better than that. Fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> deserve better. But...isn't Stan better? He's gentle, and it's not like you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>dating </span>
  </em>
  <span>or anything. He doesn't even like you like that—it's just that he's a familiar kind of guy, and you're friends (and business partners?) and sometimes his hand trails along the length of your shoulders as he passes behind you in the morning, and the sensation warms you to the tips of your fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And eventually you have to get out of bed, because he's clattering around in the kitchen and he brews one damn fine cup of coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You perform the familiar dance around the kitchen as you get cereal and he fills the coffee pot. Later, when you're both dressed and working, you glide past each other in the narrow space as he takes over the register for you, and when you brush past him in the hallway that afternoon, you bump your shoulder against his huge frame on purpose. He twists mid-step to poke one thick finger between your ribs. It gets you by surprise and you gasp while you jump and turn at the same time, and your elbow sinks right into his throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he’s done choking and you're done laughing, he swears he won't be doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> again.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>That afternoon, when the tourists are all gone, you and Stan commit murder. An ironic murder, really.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As of July 28th, 1985, the Murder Hut is officially dead. Stan drives in the last nail on the big red </span>
  <em>
    <span>S</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the roof and a little bit of pride swells in your chest. The last two weeks have been nonstop blood, sweat, tears, painting, sawing, hammering, creative taxidermy-ing...everything that comes with owning a roadside attraction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How’s it look?” Stan shouts down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fantastic!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He makes quick work coming down the ladder, and you walk to meet him at the end of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should be proud, Stan. This place looks totally different now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reaches out toward you for just a moment, and stops himself dead. “It'd be nothin’ without you. You gave me the kick in the pants I needed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You give Stan a little nod, trying to tell him he can go ahead and give the touch he was offering before. He must not get it though, because his hands go to his pockets.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yer a visionary!” He shouts. His voice, and your laugh, bounce around the clearing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun is going to set soon and take the summer heat with it, but until then, you're firmly on tank top and loose shorts mode. Stan, per usual, is dressed down to his boxers and a newly minted Mystery Shack tee. You collapse bonelessly into the couch in the living room, one leg thrown over the armrest and your head where Stan’s ass usually goes. The fan in the corner blows air softly over your sweaty body, and the cooling relief is immense. When he comes back with two cold drinks you relent and give up his seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This isn't the usual Pitt cola that Stan keeps around. This bottle is dark green, and...oooh, it's alcohol. How to break this to him gently, with as few questions as possible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up at you. “You don't like beer, do you? I should have asked first, let me go get—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no it's fine. I just don't drink. Alcohol, that is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I...like to be in control.” Shit, that didn't sound like a normal thing to say. “Uhh…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He plucks the beer from your hands and sets it down on the dino skull to his left. He’s already getting up to replace the drink. “Seriously, you don't have to explain. ‘Sides, if you don’t drink you won’t end up fat like me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your laugh rings out across the house. “Stan, you’re not fat. If a beer gut counts as fat, there might only be ten skinny guys on earth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He returns with a soda and clinks his beer against the neck of it before taking a swig. “Yeah right.” He grips his stomach with one hand and shakes the free-moving chub. “That’s all fat, baby, and I earned it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You can't help the laugh that escapes again. “You work hard for your belly fat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I really do!” He exclaims. He gestures outwardly with his beer, talking to the empty space in front of the television. “I used to be skinny as hell, y’know? Real bony. I—” his words slow as he plows into uncomfortable territory. You can tell, because you do the same thing sometimes. “I had it kinda rough, few years back. Lived out of the ol’ Diablo and everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without thinking, you reach over and pat his gut. “You definitely earned it. You’re a self-made man now, Stanford Pines.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckles. “I guess so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence settles over you while you watch the end of whatever’s on TV. When it breaks for commercials, you gather up your courage to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, uh, you know it’s okay to touch me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks over, a little startled. You feel your face flush.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean—outside, you were going to, and you stopped. I just wanted you to know I won't react like last time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Well I don't want you to just say that for me—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm not, just—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You both stop and look away from the other at the same time. Why is this so hard? You trust Stan now, you've been living here for weeks and he hasn't said a single thing to make you distrust him. That first time was a fluke, and you wished so hard you could take it back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You startle as his arm settles around your shoulders slowly, and very, very gently. After a breathless moment, you sigh and lean back into his arm. He relaxes too, with a low, happy little hum.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God, you almost forgot what it’s like to be touched by another human.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flips the channel and settles on reruns of </span>
  <em>
    <span>61 Minutes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He delights in pointing at the TV periodically and saying, “I've been there.” It seems like there’s nowhere he </span>
  <em>
    <span>hasn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> been. You wonder how much of it he was functionally homeless for, living out of his car. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you enjoy traveling?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chews the inside of his lip for a moment, eyes not flickering from the screen. “At first, yeah. It gets old eventually. I could only own as much as would fit in my car, y’know. And money was tight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You twist a little to face him. “It’s not now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs. “No way. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>comfortable</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You think about last week, when he lifted a box of screws from the hardware store, claiming nine dollars was just an outrageous price. Sometimes he acts like a real cheapskate—and you can appreciate that to a certain degree, especially in a business owner, but he drives it right into the ground. Financially comfortable people don't steal nine dollar items, and they can usually afford to pay their employees. If this is comfortable for him, you don't want to think about how bad it must have been before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you, have you traveled?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shake your head. “I've never been outside the continental US. I wanted to travel when I was a kid, but now I'm a homebody.” You laugh. “I’d rather be curled up like this than anywhere else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I want adventure again someday.” He’s smiling, but his eyes are staring far away. In a rare moment of bold stupidity, you throw caution to the wind and put your hand on his knee. His legs are hairy, like the rest of him, wiry and soft under your palm. You freeze your hand there, muscles tensing painfully before you can start </span>
  <em>
    <span>stroking</span>
  </em>
  <span> his knee. God, can you stop being such a creep?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He keeps right on talking like you never moved. “I always did. But for now I think you've got the right idea, this is good. Guess it might not be much to some, but this is the best I've ever had.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You wonder if you're included in that. Does he consider you something he has? Your heart is flip-flopping like a fish out of water and you wish it would just calm down, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan is just a friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>! He doesn't think of you that way, you tell yourself for the thousandth time. An entire commercial break passes and you keep arguing with yourself internally. Stan’s steady in-and-out breathing stills and it takes you a second to notice the absence of movement. You don't dare look up at him, so you lift your hand and begin to pull away. That was too far too soon, you're freaking him out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But then his big hand comes down on top of yours, trapping you there. His other arm is still on the back of the couch with his fingers resting on your shoulder, and now he's holding your hand. You feel like a completed circuit—jumpy and electric.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You okay?” His voice is soft, just barely a whisper, but you're close enough to his chest to hear it echo inside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” you breathe back.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No TW this chapter except the regular implied abuse. Uhh maybe public groping? But like. In the past. <br/>Fun fact: this is the first chapter without a divider somewhere <br/>Second fun fact: I just realized I could have been making up hilarious reality-adjacent names for bands and missed my chance</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: Admit you consider Stan your closest friend</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step two: Admit you’d kiss him without a second thought</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Step three: Absolutely do. not. kiss him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan, it doesn't take two people to grocery shop.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh come on! It's not like you have anything better to do here,” he whines.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You turn on him, paintbrush in hand, hand on hip. You gesture to the half-stained wall to your side. The gift shop is still getting the finishing touches on its facelift.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You need to take a break anyway.” He steps forward to close the distance between you and tugs on your arm. “Come </span>
  <em>
    <span>onnn, </span>
  </em>
  <span>think of the paint fumes! Your poor brain can't afford to lose any cells!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You scoff, indignant, and swipe at him with the brush. He dodges it expertly with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>giggle.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You stomp your foot, dropping the paintbrush in the water bucket at your feet. “Stanford Pines! You are nothing but a giant child, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>swear</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wins you over. He always does. You throw a jacket and some sneakers on over your messy painting clothes and slide into the passenger side of the Diablo. You've ridden in it often enough now that you have a ritual. You pick three cassettes out of the box, and he takes his final pick from those. It's Phil Collins tonight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The windows are rolled down to the dry, warm Summer night air, and you feel like sticking your whole head out the window to capture the feeling. Is this how dogs feel? You settle for putting your hand out and letting your fingers grow cold against the wind resistance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the store, Stan pushes the shopping cart toward you and pulls the shopping list from his pocket. For someone who dresses like a trying-too-hard street performer and speaks like a highschool dropout, he’s shockingly well organized about grocery shopping and things similar. He likes making lists almost as much as you do. Maybe you should combine your list making powers, it might make you unstoppable. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seems like all he really wanted was someone to chatter at and push the cart for him. You happily comply, since he’s buying anyway, and listen to his long winded self. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An’ my Ma, she used to make this...fuckin’, I dunno. It was Greek food, got the recipe from her cousin, but I can't remember what the hell she called it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What was it like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives you a half-look over his shoulder, then swings open a freezer to pull out some veggies. “It was like lasagna, but so much better. I haven't had it...man, I dunno. It's been twenty years or somethin’.” He looks sad for a moment, as he scribbles the veggies off his list, but he bounces back just as quickly. “Onward, Charles.” He strikes some kind of superhero pose, then proceeds toward the next aisle. All you can see is a giant child. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You catch up and walk alongside him as he slowly strolls down the aisle of dry pastas and canned foods. You’re not sure what he’s looking for, and you’re not really paying attention. Your mind drifts like it might when you’re in the shower, just going through the motions and running your brain on its lowest volume setting in the background.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last time you did any honest-to-god grocery shopping was with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He always came to the grocery store with you, because he had to, because he controlled the money. He would trail you around the aisles like a useless shadow, sometimes stealing touches when he thought no one was looking. You are never going to forget the burning-hot shame you felt that time he took the groping too far, and an elderly woman in the same aisle just lost her shit on him. You wish now that you had reacted differently, that you had sided with that woman and made a whole scene. At least then you might have been able to give him a criminal record or something, but you were still under his spell then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though it’s something like nine thirty at night, you decide this day is just no good. Ghosts of memories have been tailing you all day, nagging at your mind and body. You wish he didn’t still bother you a year later, but he does. You read in a biology book in high school that every seven years, the human body completely replaces its cells. Maybe in six years, when you have a body he’s never touched, you’ll be able to forget.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A warm hand rests on top of yours on the bar of the grocery cart. You know without looking that it’s Stan. His touch doesn’t really startle you anymore. You look up at the questioning look he’s giving you and smile in reply—even though you know it’s not your usual smile, the one that reaches your eyes and crinkles your nose. Stan doesn't mind, he seems generally ok to know that you're not ok, but don't want to talk about it. He returns the smile softly, and you both move on. His hand doesn’t leave yours until it has to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the checkout, you bag up the groceries. Stan tries to stop you, but you bat his hands away. “I can bag groceries in my sleep, it bought me my first car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head and crams his hands in his pockets, nowhere else for them to go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stanford, I didn’t know you were </span>
  <em>
    <span>dating</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” the cashier says with a conspiratory smile in her voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your entire body stiffens. In a quick glance toward Stan, you see his face is turning red. Up to you to break the news, then. “We’re not dating,” you say with what was supposed to be light laughter. It comes out leaden and awkward. “I’m just--” you look toward him for help. What are you?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Business partner,” he finishes. “You should come out to the old place sometime, Sharon. We’ve changed it up a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stuff cans of tuna into plastic bags, keeping your head down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uhh, Charlie, this is Sharon. Dan’s gal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sharon has blue hoop earrings and Cyndi Lauper hair. She’s adorable, but you really wish this Actual Child wasn't making you wildly uncomfortable right now. “You’d make a cute couple,” she says. Her grin is framed by Barbie-pink lipstick. “Dontcha be too quick to give up on the idea!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan shoves cash in her hand and waits impatiently for the change. “Thanks Sharon, tell Dan we said hi, have a good night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He all but pulls you out of the building, and you can't help but think that this grabbing-by-the-elbow thing isn't going to help your case with Sharon. By the time you get out into the parking lot, you've dissolved into giggles. Stan’s laughing too, but he’s smothering it with his big hand and he’s still hot pink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>adorable</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you croon. “What is she, fifteen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head and releases you arm, like he just realized he was still holding it. “Somethin’ like that, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You transfer the groceries from the cart to the trunk together. Stan gives you the keys to the car and runs the cart back to the store. Halfway there, he jumps up and puts his feet on the bottom to coast the rest of the way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Snickering, you shut the trunk. You pause there, noticing the vanity plates on the car. You shoulda known he’d have them, he talks about this car like he gave birth to it or something. The peculiar thing is...it says </span>
  <em>
    <span>STNLYMBL</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatcha lookin’ at?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You look up at him and give him the keys. “Is Stanley a nickname or something?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes blow wide, then flick down to the license plate. He shakes it off in a blink and, if you didn't know him as well as you do now, you might not have noticed it at all. “Yeah, back in school y’know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm.” You stare at the plate a little longer, then move to get in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ride back to the shack is completely silent. You're so busy thinking about the plate that you forget to pick a cassette until you're halfway there, and then it’s just not worth it. Stan doesn't say anything if he notices the silence. But he’s driving with both of his hands on the wheel, and there’s just a strange look in his eye…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan carries the groceries in while you put them away. You like these things organized, and he doesn't interfere with that. When you're done you both walk around the kitchen, picking up and balling up the plastic bags. Halfway through this task, you can't stand it anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would people call you Stanley?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With his back to you, you see his shoulders stiffen beneath his shirt. “Just let it go, okay? No one calls me that anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You put your hand on your hip. “I wouldn't have thought twice about it if you weren't acting so weird about it. Just tell me, did you steal the car or something? I'm not gonna care.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns. “Why does it matter to you so much? I don't have to tell you everything Charlie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, no, but you certainly don't have to lie to me either!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bristles, getting big and puffing up like he did at the flea market. “I'm sorry, did we not </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>clarify that we aren't dating? I can say whatever I damn please! If you don't like it, go get your own apartment!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You set your jaw and say nothing. Stan’s posture starts to deflate a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Charlie—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You're an asshole,” you spit out. Before anything else can be said, you throw down the plastic bags, turn, and stalk down the hall to your room.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Shanah Tovah to my Jewish readers out there! I hope you enjoy your holiday. </p><p>TW on this is implied abuse and Stan being so precious that you might have a heart attack</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: Don't cry. Angry tears always give you a headache and you're so tired of crying anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step two: Punch the pillow on your bed. That’ll help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step three: Fuck this so much</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When you hear the back door slam shut, you know it's safe. Stan is out on the porch for a smoke, surely, so you creep back over to the gift shop to finish the painting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a while you just silently fume, playing the short-lived argument in your head over and over again. You think of different comebacks and different things he could have said, and what he could possibly be trying to cover up. Eventually you cool down and your mind wanders in the repetitive motions. Dip, paint, dip, paint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's midnight when you finish. You take the bucket of water and the paintbrushes in it over to the house side to wash them out, and find Stan sitting at the table. He’s sitting nearly in the dark, with only the light over the kitchen table on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look up when you come in. You wash the brushes and the bucket and lay them out to dry, then sit down beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes a photograph toward you. There are two little boys sitting on the beach on a striped towel. They're covered in sand and sunburnt, but their grins are wide enough to split their cheeks. Your heart sinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was my twin.” His voice is dry and cracking. It sounds like he’s been crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan, I'm so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “He, uh, he went missing last year. Whole family thinks he’s dead, but I'm...I’m looking. Every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You push the photo back toward him and put your hand lightly on his arm. He doesn't shrink away from the touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were both Stans, so…” he’s holding the photo like it’s the most valuable thing he owns. Maybe it is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches to the other side of the table, covered in shadow, and pulls another piece of paper forward. In bold letters it says ‘</span>
  <b>
    <em>STANLEY PINES DEAD’</em>
  </b>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh man, you fucked up. You fucked up so fucking bad. Breaks cut, foul play suspected...no body. You stop breathing when you see the date at the top of the newspaper clipping—it’s barely even been a year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he’s still out there. He’s my twin, I feel like I'd just...</span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he was dead.” He pauses and swallows audibly. You rub your thumb on his arm in what you hope is a comforting way. “I don't want you to feel sorry for me or anything, I don't deserve it. I just wanted to tell you...as much of the truth as I can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He heavily swipes a tear from his face, hidden by his hair. You do the only thing that you can think of, you just lurch forward and hug him. After a moment, he wraps his arms around you. There’s a sniffle at your shoulder, but no more tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm so sorry you lost him. I hope he’s out there, too.” You pull back, keeping your hands on his arms. “Please forgive me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles and shakes his head. “Nah, it's ok. I was being dodgy. I, uh, I gotta get used to talkin’ about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take in a deep breath and let it all out in one go. “You wanna watch something before bed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, so you grab two bottles of Pitt and follow him to the living room. You’ll ask more about Stanley another time. Maybe you can help to find him.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>You lock the gift shop door and take your name tag off. It says Charlie, and so do all the checks he’s made out to you. It's what everyone in town calls you.  You haven't heard your given name in weeks and it's pure bliss. Of course, it sounds best from Stan’s mouth. When he’s pretending to be mad at you he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>Charles</span>
  </em>
  <span> very much how you think a British person scolding their small terrier named Charles would also say it. It never fails to make you laugh, and your laugh never fails to make him smile. A vicious cycle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan sighs contentedly while unbuttoning his shirt. The blood spatters are now little maroon question marks on a happy yellow shirt. It's not any better as a fashion choice, but children are significantly less leery of him now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You move to count the till, and he flaps a lazy hand at you. “Leave it for tomorrow,” he says. “I'm pooped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're not sure you've ever heard a grown man say that, but that’s just Stan for you. He says a lot of things that grown men probably shouldn't say, and it's part of why you adore him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Note the clever use of </span>
  <em>
    <span>adore</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>adore</span>
  </em>
  <span> him because that’s an appropriate feeling to have about your boss slash landlord whom you are definitely not attracted to. You do not </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You both split up in the hallway to your respective bedrooms. You have a real mattress now, and that's where you toss your “uniform” of jeans and a Mystery Shack tee-shirt. Once you've got some soft, lightweight pajamas on, you head back out to the living room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second you collapse into the couch, Stan calls you from the kitchen table. He can see you, so you can't pretend to ignore him. You groan and get up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanna talk to you,” he says softly. He pushes your regular chair out with his foot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your heart leaps in your chest and goes cold in the same minute. You do not like the sound of that, but you sit down all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, August is almost over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod slowly. Thank you, Captain Obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, the last couple months have been great, it's great to not be alone out here. But...August is almost over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said that already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods maybe a little more enthusiastically than necessary. You note that he’s pulled his hair back again, still with that same blue rubber band. “The shack closes at the end of August. School starts in September, and nobody comes around. At least, not enough people to warrant keepin’ the lights on. Dan—Boyish Dan, you've met him right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, and Sharon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, right. Well his old man has a logging business, they spend the Autumn and some a’ the Winter haulin’ wood and all. They let me help out for a small wage and free firewood. I’ll have plenty to pay for groceries and everything, but once the snow settles in…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You suddenly realize what he’s getting at. “Oh god, I gotta find somewhere to live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait wait wait, hang on, that’s not what I'm sayin’. You can stay here—I'd </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> you to stay here, but I don't want ya to feel...trapped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's not appropriate for the situation, but it’s all just so absurd. You laugh. “Stan, I'd love to stay too, but I don't want to impose. I mean, groceries are expensive these days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could get a job, all those little part time things’ll be open again once school starts up.” He bites down on his lip, waiting for your answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're not sure how to feel. He definitely wants you to stay, he wouldn't lie about that, but...why? If he has expectations, you know you're sure as hell not going to be able to meet them. But he did say he didn't want you acting like a housekeeper...but men like Stan don’t do these things without expectations. Besides, it’s only been a week since you basically terrorized him over his twin brother’s death-slash-disappearance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You find yourself asking the same thing you did two months ago. “No funny business?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A grin spreads across his face. “Ain't all our business funny?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: panic attack, implied sexual abuse</p><p>Fun fact: the following is 100% personal experience lol</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Step one: Turn on the faucet</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step two: Strip, but don't look in the mirror</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step three: Scour him from your body</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s been so long, you almost forgot what it feels like to wake up with the sensation of hands crawling on your skin, in a cold sweat, burning with shame and anger and betrayal and a thousand other things mixed together in a deadly cocktail of pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stand in the tub under water that's too hot for your skin. It’s scalding your back and plastering your hair to your neck while you hold yourself tightly and try to recite the things the books told you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You didn't deserve it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You are safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You are loved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's stupid, isn't it? That a dream can give you a panic attack? Your lungs are tight. Steam rolls off your body. Your skin is flushing in the heat of the water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit down on your knees and grip the sides of the tub, trying to ground yourself, but you can't get those images out of your head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In your dreams, every man is like </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s been your father, that boy you dated in high school, an old professor, your old manager who was admittedly a little creepy, and now Stan. Hot and heavy hands touch whatever they want, and you're always powerless to stop it. Your brain doesn't wake you up like it does in the movies—in real life you just have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>suffer</span>
  </em>
  <span> until you wake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Stan wouldn't do that. He wouldn't...he wouldn't. Logically you know this, but it's a conversation you have with yourself every time this dream rears its ugly head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wash every inch of your body vigorously and stand under the water until it runs cold. When you get out, you curse your lack of forethought. With your sweaty pajamas balled up to your chest, you tiptoe across the hallway in nothing but a towel. Luckily, Stan is in the kitchen so there's no danger of being seen. The whole house smells like coffee and bacon, a soothing balm on your nerves. Food is good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You dry your hair as well as you can with a towel, put on some comfy clothes, and pad out into the kitchen. Stan is in front of the stove with a cast iron skillet, cooking bacon and eggs and ‘Stancakes’. He smiles brightly. You reel as your brain tries to align the man in front of you with the man from your nightmare. His hands don't grab, they flip pancakes. His mouth doesn't huff in your ear, it smiles like the sun. Or, it was smiling. It's turned down now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Charlie, you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit down heavily in your usual chair and put your head in your hands. When he touches your shoulder, you cringe and stiffen. He immediately releases you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” you mumble through a tearful voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves the chair he usually sits in, and a second later he’s crouched beside you, hand on your knee. “You’re not okay.” It's not a question, it's a statement. You're not really sure if he expects a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have…nightmares, sometimes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods. His eyes are big and sympathetic. Not lustful. “Me too. Do you want to talk about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head vehemently. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the kind of thing to share with someone if you ever want them to be comfortable in the same room as you ever again. But… “Can I hug you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks a little stunned for a moment, and in the next moment you're wrapped up in the softest, most gentle bear hug of your life. Your cheek is squished by a forearm as big around as your waist and a laugh bubbles out of you. He squeezes you a little, then releases you. “Good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, apparently satisfied with his efforts. While he attends to his full breakfast spread on the stove, you pour yourself a mug of coffee, then top his off too. You give your blown glass zoo a smile and pat one of the hens on the head with your finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First day of our Winter break,” he says. “How ya feelin’ about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I'd say I enjoyed sleeping in, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts a heaping plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes on the table. It looks like enough to feed four or five people, but you know that you and Stan have it under control. Eating is almost a sport between the two of you now—</span>
  <em>
    <span>competitive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, don't get too used to it. I get up at o-dark-thirty to go terrorize the forest, and it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> turn to make the morning coffee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You snort. “Not on your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a while it’s all sounds of chewing and silverware on ceramic. Breakfast is a sacred and important thing. Besides, you're still winding down from that dream. Your shoulders feel kind of sunburnt now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure you don't wanna talk about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look up at Stan, who’s got one elbow on the table and all eyes on you. Until he spoke, you didn't really realize you had stopped eating. You don't answer right away, looking down at your plate for a while instead. Stan stays still and quiet, waiting patiently for your answer. How he can be so exuberant and childlike and full of wonder, yet so full of patience and sadness and understanding, you will never know. He’s much more than he seems on the surface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You suppose you are, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You might not wanna know,” you warn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try me,” he says through a bite of pancake and bacon. That charmer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, fine.” You take a deep breath to steel yourself. “My ex-husband isn't a nice person. He, uh, wasn't kind to me. Sometimes I have nightmares, and sometimes when people touch me…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought it might be somethin’ like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You throw a glance upward. He doesn't look surprised, just a little sad, which in turn makes </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “I seen it in other folks before. Scared of sudden movements, touches, surprises. It's nothing to be ashamed of.” He leans on his elbow and makes very pointed eye contact. “And it </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn't </span>
  </em>
  <span>your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh-eh, don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘just’</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. It isn't your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know that? You don't know anything about him, or—or how I behaved. You can't know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know enough.” His tone is solid as stone, but he isn't raising his voice. You recognize that and appreciate it. “I've lived with ya for two months now, I don't need to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>and that you could never do anything to deserve that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cast your eyes back down to the plate, frustrated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if the table was turned, huh? You've only known me for a couple a’ months, you think I deserve it? You think it’d be my fault?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” The response is forceful and petty, like a child’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you wouldn't. Why’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You put your chin on your hand and stare at him across the table. It's too damn early to be dealing with this, on the first day of your so-called Winter break no less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows, waiting for his answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you're kind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs and shakes his head, expression tentative. “I'm not, but you get the idea. I know you wouldn't hurt a fly, no way you do anything to earn abuse like that. Now eat your damn breakfast before it gets cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you watch him stuff his face, the thought flits across your mind that maybe he understands more than you know. Every time he mentions his parents, like at the grocery store the other night, he looks a little sad. He always seems to understand when you don't feel like being touched, what kind of touch is okay, that you don't handle being snuck up on well. Your sister tried to be understanding and accommodating while you stayed with her, she read the books and said the right words, but she didn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it was glaringly obvious. Stan does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You narrow your eyes at him and the thin, pale scars on his arms. You always chalked it up to Stan being a rough kinda guy, but what if…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You put a bite of syrupy pancake in your mouth and turn your thoughts away. Sometime soon you'll ask him about it, and about Stanley too. For now, you’ll observe the sanctity of breakfast.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>After breakfast, you clean the kitchen from top to bottom while Stan attacks the living room. He’s pulled a big boombox out from somewhere and has music playing the whole time, windows and doors thrown open to let in the early September air and the first tastes of Autumn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause for a drink, feather duster in hand, while he's vacuuming the carpet. He makes the vacuum look tiny, with his burly arms and shoulders. He’s sort of dancing to the music as he does, swaying and moving his free arm around gracelessly with his household appliance partner. It’s kind of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucky </span>
  </em>
  <span>dance partner, you think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan would laugh at that, but you're not going to tell him. It would mean admitting that you're still standing here watching him when you could have gone back to work a full minute ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This life you have now, showering in privacy, having breakfast made for you, cleaning and dancing and singing and laughing, it's more domesticity than you've ever had before. This man who barely touches you, doesn’t even call you by your given name, is a better husband to you than your </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual</span>
  </em>
  <span> husband ever was. And besides the outlier of this morning, your nightmares have sharply decreased. Old wounds feel like they're starting to heal, just the slightest bit, and Stan might not even know how much he’s helped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he starts to wind up the vacuum cord, you take it as your cue to pretend you weren’t standing still and daydreaming. You turn to the windowsill over the sink and one by one, pick up your glass animals and dust underneath them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna go work on a project for a bit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You jump so hard that you would have dropped one of the little figurines if you hadn’t just put it down. Why the fuck is he so silent when he’s so big?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barks out that loud laugh and puts his hand on your shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. You okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn toward him with your hand clasped over your heart. “You trying to kill me, Pines?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, if I was tryna kill you, you’d be dead.” He flashes that wolfish grin that, lately, leaves you feeling a little weak in the knees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You kick your hormones in the teeth, mentally, and refocus on the conversation. “Right, sure. What did you say you’re doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got a science project goin’. Since we got all this extra time now, I’m gonna go work on it for the afternoon. You’ll be good here all alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You roll your eyes. “I’ll try not to burn the place down, Dr. Pines.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in his eyes changes for just a fraction of a second when you say that. You’re certain that your face blanches in the same moment. Note to self: do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> call him that unless you have time for a cold shower afterward. God, that half-second of a look in his eyes--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” he says hoarsely. He clears his throat and drifts a few steps away, well out of arm’s length. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod firmly and turn back toward the window, because you’re sure whatever you try to say next would just come out as a squeak.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lissin I know this is a boring chapter but if I merged it with the next one it'd be a massive frankenchapter. Also whoops, I'm running out of stuff to publish. You'll for sure have another chapter tomorrow but after that.... 😬</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: child abuse (mentioned), alcohol, and Stan lying through his teeth</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Step one: Decide what kind of relationship you want with Stan</p><p>Step two: ?</p><p>Step three: </p><p> </p><p>You actually don’t see Stan again that day. Around dinner time you think about taking a plate to his office, over on the business side of the building, but you decide against it. Stan’s an entire grown-ass man, he can decide to skip dinner if he wants to.</p><p>So you eat alone in front of the TV, wash your dishes alone, and read alone on the sofa until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore. </p><p>Part of you is surprised that he has the strength of mind to stay focused on something this long, part of you wonders if he fell asleep or something. But Stan actually <em> does </em> have a PhD, according to everyone in town. You’ve never seen the diploma or heard Stan talk about it, but it doesn't seem like the kind of thing one is mistaken about. He would have to have at least a little mental stamina to get through all that schooling. Or...maybe he doesn’t anymore, and that’s why the tourist business. Where does the living-out-of-the-car fit in there, anyway? Surely he wasn’t getting a degree while homeless, right?</p><p>Sometimes you try to think about him objectively, as a person, and your mind always goes back to what that woman said--what was her name, Tina?--about how he lived here for years and didn’t show his face. Your mind wants to assume the personality change might have been because of his brother, but you know it’s just assumptions. His past is...hazy at best. </p><p>Thinking about it too hard makes your head hurt.</p><p>You hug your book to your chest, staring up at the ceiling. Stanford Pines is an enigma and a mystery, and you aren’t sure you want to get to the bottom of it. This relationship you have now is nice--it’s something you haven’t had in something like a decade. This easy companionship is something you would miss dearly if you were to fuck it up now. Besides, you still haven’t looked for any other jobs or apartments, and you just more or less agreed to live here the entire winter…</p><p>You really aren’t used to using your brain, huh?</p><p>Before you can get caught up in that cycle of self-deprecating thought, you opt to switch off the lamp above you and fall asleep right there on the sofa.</p><hr/><p>You wake up to a loud <em> BANG </em> and sink deeper into the sofa, bringing the throw blanket up over your nose. What the hell was that? What the fuck time is it?</p><p>A light in the kitchen flicks on and you squint against it to make out the offending noise-maker. You’re relieved to see it’s just Stan, shuffling around the kitchen in a pair of sweatpants and a complete lack of shirt. He’s slamming kitchen cabinets, muttering to himself while he looks for something.</p><p>You wonder for a moment if he’s drunk. You haven’t seen him drink to drunkenness yet, but this doesn’t seem like normal behavior.</p><p>He slams another cabinet, then pulls out a chair at the table and sits down with a grunt. He might not be drunk yet, but it looks like he’s planning on getting there. He has a cup and a tall bottle of something golden colored. He tosses back a long drink, then puts his elbows on the table and his face in his hands.</p><p>How best to handle this. If you just stand up and walk toward him you’re going to scare the shit out of him, but you aren’t exactly sure you’ll be able to get to your room without him seeing or hearing you, and sitting here spying on him doesn’t exactly seem like an option. You sit up very slowly and quietly, moving the blanket to the back of the sofa and tucking your book under the edge of it. Maybe if you make a quick dash…</p><p>All thoughts of escape leave your mind when you see his shoulders shaking. It doesn’t make sense to your tired eyes at first--you lean forward and squint into the light, and slowly, slowly, you realize that he’s <em> crying </em>. Your heart sinks. This isn’t something he wants you to be watching, you know that. It would be wrong at this point to pretend you haven’t seen anything.</p><p>“Stan,” you sort-of whisper, projecting your voice toward him in an effort to not startle him.</p><p>It doesn't work. He jolts upright in the chair, looking toward the sound of your voice.</p><p>“Charlie? Goddammit, you scared the shit outta me,” he sighs. He tries to quickly wipe away tears.</p><p>You come into the light over the kitchen table and hesitate there near him. It’s colder out here without the blanket. “I--I fell asleep on the couch. Are you okay?”</p><p>He stares at the table for a long while, then finally tilts his head up to look at you. His eyes are garishly bloodshot and rimmed with tears still. Your heart is in your throat. He tries to smile, which turns out as a wobbly grimace, and shrugs.</p><p>You pull a seat closer to him and sit down.</p><p>He pours himself another glass of what looks like whiskey. “Want some?” he asks miserably. “Oh. You don’t--sorry.”</p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p>He downs the second glass, also in a single gulp, and puts his hand back over his face.</p><p>“What’s wrong Stan?”</p><p>His face is hidden from you double--through his hand and his hair, you can’t see anything. You can see him take in a deep breath though, and then full-body shudder as he releases it. “Just--my brother,” he groans into his hand. “I’m not even sure if he’s out there, but I’m doing everything I can--” he pauses for another big breath, and his next words are strained with the weight of held-back tears. “It’s my fault, I fucked up, the last thing we ever did was fight and now--now I’m not even sure he’s--” A sob breaks out of him, fractured and hoarse, and then he seems to lose control. He just keeps his hands pressed to his face while tears run down his arms.</p><p>You jump to your feet and wrap your arms around his big shoulders, tucking your face between his head and your own arm. He keeps crying as his body shudders over and over again.</p><p>“He hates me,” he gasps out. “I always mess everything up, he <em> should </em> hate me--” He cuts himself off with another sob.</p><p>“Stan, he's your brother, I'm sure he doesn't hate you.”</p><p>“If I'd just listened to him he might still be here! And every time I think I'm making progress, it's right back to square one! I'm <em> tired </em>.”</p><p>He doesn't say anything else for a while. He manages to ease his crying, and after a moment he puts his hand on one of your arms. “He does hate me. I ruined his life. We hadn't even talked in…” he pauses. “Eighteen years. Eighteen years. We--we lived longer without each other than we did <em> with </em> each other.”</p><p>How do you even begin to soothe that kind of pain? He’s lost more than you can comprehend having, you don't know what to do other than continue to listen and hope the hug is more soothing than it is annoying.</p><p>“My dad kicked me out at seventeen.” He says it like the most casual thing in the world, but he must feel your body jolt. He lets out a morbid chuckle. “Because I fucked up my brother’s life. I haven't seen him and Ma since then except the funeral.”</p><p>“Stan,” you breathe. “That's horrible.” Horrible doesn't begin to describe it, but that's the only thing that you can think to say.</p><p>“I've never been worth more to 'em than the money I could make ‘em. And I'm <em> still </em> workin’ my ass off to find him, how pathetic is that?”</p><p>“It's not. It’s not pathetic, it’s loving. You care for your family even if they don't care for you and that's noble.”</p><p>He scoffs. His hand tightens on your arm. “Noble. There isn't a noble fucking thing about me. I been sleepin’ on the floor a’ homeless shelters since I was seventeen years old and I'd still be doin’ it if it weren't for my brother. What's noble about that?”</p><p>Finally, you pull away from him. He seems hesitant to let go of you, but you make him. Instead you kneel at his knee like he did for you this morning and look straight into those bloodshot eyes.</p><p>“Stanford Pines, you are noble, honorable, and intelligent. I don't care what other people think, I enjoy your company and I'll fight any son of a bitch who tries to change my mind. If you get to tell me I didn't deserve it, I get to tell you that too.We ended up here, past be damned, and I wouldn't change a thing.”</p><p>A wobbly little smile forms on his lips. This time he leans forward to initiate the hug. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and you just let him, because you have a feeling he needs it. </p><p>“You’re a fuckin’ sap,” he mumbles.</p><p>You laugh.</p><p>“You are. An’ I dunno why you put up with me.”</p><p>You hold your hand against the back of his head, fingers absently raking through his hair. “Hmm, let's see. You employee me, house me, feed me frequently, and beside all that you're a total hunk—”</p><p>He laughs into your neck. It's almost hysteric, the way he has to pull breath in desperately and hold onto a handful of your shirt. “<em> Sap </em>,” he says again.</p><p>“Meanie.”</p><p>“Butt head.”</p><p>“Jerk.”</p><p>“Narbo.”</p><p>“<em> Narbo </em>?” You laugh.</p><p>“You heard me.”</p><p>“I don't think you're allowed to call me the sap when you're the one still hugging me.”</p><p>“Shuddup,” he mumbles.</p><p>You happily comply.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Every time they hug a child commits their first petty crime</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I almost forgot to tag TW which is bad because uh, TW for sexual abuse!!! Also TW for sexual assault. Please proceed with caution. If anyone out there can relate a little too well to Charlie's experiences, always feel free to DM me on tumblr. You are not alone.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Step one: Apply for job</p><p>Step two: Interview for job</p><p>Step three: Oh shit, you got the job, figure out how you're gonna get there</p><p> </p><p>It takes you exactly one week without work to lose your mind. </p><p>Stan’s out with Dan from dawn to four in the afternoon, which leaves you with far too much time alone. It’s not that you don’t like a good little bit of alone time—it's just that silence is a dangerous thing. A mind left to wander...well, there’s a saying about idle hands and the devil’s work for a reason. </p><p>Your mind either wanders to Stan or to <em> him </em> . Clearly, the latter is not something to be dwelled upon. Stan, on the other hand, is far too easy to dwell on. You try to read to distract yourself, then find yourself replacing the hero’s chiseled physique with Stan’s soft, stout, round, <em> strong </em> body. Abs be damned, he’s built like a tank and it's attractive! </p><p>So you try TV instead. But the movie you watch gets a little…heated, and your brain gives you a lovely image of yourself beneath Stan and your cheeks flush so intensely red that it feels like you’re sitting beneath a heat lamp, and so begins a vicious cycle of fantasies and mounting attraction begetting more of the same, and you do…precisely nothing about it. </p><p>Because yes, it would be <em> extremely wrong </em> to touch yourself with that mental picture playing in your head, but the real reason is you just can’t bring yourself to do it. You don’t even get a chance to feel the steamy rush and the embarrassment afterward, and it has nothing to do with Stan; your body belonged to someone else for so long that you simply don’t know how to inhabit it now. Sex and all its accoutrements are inexorably tied to <em> him </em> in your mind. Even though you know it’s your own hands, they still feel heavy, and desperate, and wrong.</p><p>So after a few days of <em> that </em>extreme frustration, you decide it’s time to get that job.</p><p>You start with the grocery store because it’s pretty close to the Shack, all things considered. Sharon is there when you apply, and she's there when you go in to interview the very next day. When you nod the confirmation that you got the job, she lets out an ear-piercing squeal and takes your hands tight into her own.</p><p>You’re not quite as ecstatic to start bagging groceries again in your thirties, but you have to start somewhere. Besides, this is a move in the right direction! Build up some savings to fall back on, pull your own weight around the Shack, stop depending on Stan. This is what you came to Gravity Falls for, ultimately, so why don't you feel more excited about it?</p><p>“How’d it go?” Stan asks as you slip into the car. He waited in the parking lot while you did your interview--he insisted you didn’t walk all the way there in what passes for your ‘nice’ clothes. Honestly, you were thankful because it was a pretty long walk when you made it to get the application.</p><p>“Well, I got the job.”</p><p>“Hey! That’s great!” He nudges your shoulder with his elbow, grinning, then starts up the car. “You wanna go anywhere else?”</p><p>“Nah, let’s head home.” Wait, when did the Shack become home? How long have you been calling it that? Add <em> that </em> to the ‘Oh Shit, I’m In Deep Trouble’ list.</p><p>Your mind wanders while the old Diablo putters down the road. The manager said he’d give you an apron when you go in for your first shift, which is yet to be scheduled. Other than that the uniform is ‘don’t dress like an idiot’. You wonder if the one pair of sneakers you have will be comfortable enough to stand on your feet all day. And then with a significant start, you realize you’re going to have to walk to work every shift. This isn't a city big enough to have buses, the Shack is a good two miles outside city limits anyway, and you can't afford to buy even the dumpiest of cars. For a moment you wonder if Sharon would be willing to pick you up, then remember <em> doy </em>, she isn't old enough to drive, stupid.</p><p>You follow Stan into the Shack, numb. Neither of you say anything as you part ways; him to the living room, you to the kitchen. You sit down at the table and stare at your feet for a while, wracking your brain for another solution. Maybe you can get a bike--bikes aren’t that expensive, right? But it’ll start snowing in the next month or two, and you know that long stretch of dirt road leading to the Shack isn’t going to be very good for bikes. Or walking, for that matter. Shit, shit, shit. How did you not think of this problem sooner?</p><p>Last resort it is, then.</p><p>You go to the doorway of the living room, where Stan’s either reading the book in his hand, or watching the TV in front of him. Maybe both? You note with an eyebrow raised that he’s reading about theoretical physics, and squinting very closely at it.</p><p>Gently, you clear your throat. “Stan, ah, I had a question for you.”</p><p>Stan looks up from the tv like he's just had his hand in the cookie jar or something. When he sees your posture—arms wrapped around yourself, chin ducked—his defensiveness vanishes in favor of mild concern, then guilt again. “Ooookay, what's up?”</p><p>You step down into the living room and perch on the edge of the armchair. “So I got the job, right?”</p><p>“Right.” His eyes dart away from you, then back. Is that...is that the question?”</p><p>“No, no. Uh, I was wondering if maybe, uh, you could drop me off in the mornings? It’s a part time job so it’ll only be a couple days a week.” You’re rushing through sentences, words tumbling out and blurring together nervously. “I figure maybe I can get them to schedule me for the same hours you work or something. Don't feel like you have to, I'll figure something else out if you can't.”</p><p>His brow furrows at you. That doesn't look good.</p><p>“You know what, it was dumb to ask, you've got enough on your plate as it is,” you stand and start backing out of the living room. </p><p>“You have a driver’s license, right?”</p><p>“Uhhh, yes. I, um, haven't driven in a few years though.”</p><p>He raises his eyebrows a little. “You aren't givin’ me much confidence here Charles.”</p><p><em> Ah </em> , that's how you can tell he’s not upset or worried. That little playful jab of <em> Charles </em>only slips when he's in a good mood. Your shoulders relax a little bit. “I used to have a car, but, y’know, controlling husband.”</p><p>You instantly wish you hadn't dropped that last bit. His jaw sets awkwardly as soon as you say it, nobody likes when you talk about that. It just sounds like a pity—</p><p>“Hey, you want me to kill that guy for you? Because it sounds like he sucks, and I will <em> totally </em> kill that guy for you.”</p><p>A laugh tumbles out of you unexpectedly. His flat affect says <em> joke </em> but his eyes say <em> murder </em>. “No, no, I think I'm good.”</p><p>He shakes his head with a soft little chuckle. “Alright, well.” He stands up with a groan and stretches upward. His little beer gut peeks out of the bottom of his shirt, and his chest muscles tighten, and oh <em> god didn't you promise yourself you were going to stop ogling your boss-slash-roommate-slash best friend </em>?</p><p>He shuts the TV off and walks toward you. You sidestep to get out of his way, but he just takes you by the arm and spins you around, then keeps on forward with his hand at the small of your back. Apparently, you're coming with him whether you like it or not.</p><p>“Get your shoes and a jacket, we’re gonna take el Diablo for a spin.”</p><p>You open your mouth to speak, but he’s already turned away to get his <em> own </em> jacket and shoes. The sun is setting outside, and the nights are growing more and more chilly as September stretches on.</p><p>When you step outside, properly outfitted, he tosses the keys your way. You fumble to catch them. “Stan, had you already thought of this?”</p><p>He opens the passenger door and slides in, making you have to do the same to hear his response. It feels very odd to sit behind the wheel of a car.</p><p>“Yeah, honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t think of it ‘til now. I already talked to Dan, he’s just gonna pick me up on the way to the worksite. He drives right past here, anyway.”</p><p>You breathe out a sigh, hand to your forehead. “This car is your <em> baby </em>, you really do not have to do this.”</p><p>“Are you planning on wreckin’ it or something? Seriously, how bad of a driver <em> are </em> you?”</p><p>“I’m not a bad driver!” You exclaim. But when you look over to him, he’s got a shit-eating grin. Stupid, adorable tease. </p><p>“Alright, just take ‘er easy. These dirt roads are full of potholes.”</p><p>Right. You put the key in the ignition and pause there. It's been, what, three years since you started a car? It's not like you forgot how, a monkey could start a car—it's just the pervasive feeling of wrongness. You're not supposed to start cars, according to those deeply ingrained survival mechanisms in your head. </p><p>“You forget how to start it or somethin’?” Stan grumbles.</p><p>“Shut up,” you say, turning the key and bringing the engine to life. “I'm mentally preparing myself.”</p><p>“You think too much,” Stan says, and you know he’s dead serious.</p><p>You put your foot on the clutch and ease the car into first gear. “Mm, maybe you should try thinking <em> more </em>.”</p><p>He puts his feet up on the dash and makes himself comfy. “Considered it, tried it, ‘s not for me.”</p><p>You would laugh, but you have your teeth grit together as you slowly, slowly release the clutch. You get the car onto the road alright, and the stretch of dirt isn't too difficult. But when you try to shift into second gear, you release the clutch and...stall the engine.</p><p>Stan sits up and puts his hand on the dash. “You’re hurtin’ the poor girl!” He pets the dash and turns to you, tone significantly calmer. “Take it easy, there's nobody out here to hit ya. Take your time.”</p><p>You go through the process again, and this time it’s easier. You slowly, slowly ease off the clutch, and praise be, the car continues to move. Your teeth are still grit together though. </p><p>“Take a right up here.”</p><p>It's a quiet ride through Gravity Falls’ sleepy roads. Stan gives you directions periodically and you follow them, too busy proving that you're a good driver to question where he’s taking you. That is, until he has you take a sharp left into the parking lot of a long-closed department store. </p><p>“Y’see that over there? Go that way.”</p><p>A small building stands on the edge of the lot. There are warm string lights hung among the red and white striped canopies, as well as other cars and people. Outlined against the purple dusk sky, it's nothing short of idyllic.</p><p>You park beside another car, a reasonable distance from the building. Stan immediately gets out, so you hurry to put the car in park and follow him. He’s waited for you, and now he holds his elbow out to you with an easygoing, soft smile. You hook your arm through his and walk on. </p><p>The building is a rectangle with two windows in the front, and a big chalkboard menu in between them. Painted in neat red script on top is <em> Cream O’ Crop. </em> Oh, it's a little ice cream place! Either side of the building, in the grassy area, are an army of weather-worn picnic tables and umbrellas already folded down for the night. It seems like half the town is here. Kids are running around with chocolate shadows on their faces, a few adults are playing cornhole off to the side, and families sit together smiling. You even recognize a few of them. This part of small town life, you don't mind so much.</p><p>After you get two cones, Stan automatically retreats to the car. You lean against the hood with him, watching it all from a distance.</p><p>You take a few contemplative licks of ice cream, then turn to Stan. “Do you not like the townspeople?”</p><p>He looks over, surprised by the question. There's a dribble of chocolate ice cream at the corner of his mouth and you <em> definitely do not </em>imagine kissing it away.</p><p>“I don't mind ‘em. They're nice for the most part, if not a little…loopy.”</p><p>“Mm, bold statement from king of the loops.”</p><p>He chuckles. Another few silent moments pass.</p><p>“Do they like you?”</p><p>He snorts. “Maybe too much. Why? What’s on your mind?”</p><p>“Well, I was just wondering why you came back to the car. There's plenty of room to sit—”</p><p>“Do you want to go?”</p><p>“No, I just wanted to know why you <em> don't. </em>”</p><p>He sighs and gazes back toward it all. “You're real fuckin nosy, you know that?”</p><p>Your cheeks flush, maybe from anger, maybe from embarrassment. “Wow, <em> thanks </em>.”</p><p>He bumps you with his shoulder. “I dunno, I just...like bein’ alone with ya. I— Not in a creepy way, I just mean I enjoy your company, and—” He takes a big bite off the top of his chocolate cone. Just a solid <em> bite </em> out of the ice cream. That’s how desperate he is to shut himself up.</p><p>You're a little stunned, a little confused. “You mean...you’d rather be with me out here?”</p><p>His chin has disappeared behind the collar of his jacket and the shoulders that are slowly rising up to his ears. You don't have much light to see by, but you can still tell that he’s flushed red. “Sure, somethin’ like that.”</p><p>You smile. After a moment, you lean into his shoulder and rest your head while you continue on with your ice cream. It takes him a second to defrost, muscles slowly releasing their anxious grip under you. When he shifts a little and puts his arm around you, hand tucked at your hip, you flush red too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter is my favorite one since the flea market TT~TT</p><p>No update tomorrow, folks, because I will be out of town. Regular updates should resume on Thursday or Friday, it's TBD haha. Thank you everyone for reading and leaving comments! I cherish every single one of them &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm back! One day only! No really, updates are probably gonna be sporadic for a while. No TWs for this one :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sharon befriends you quickly, like it’s her entire life’s mission. When the store is empty, she’ll come stand at your register and lean on the belt, straightening packs of bubblegum and smacking on her own while she tells you every detail of her relationship with Dan. She is fifteen, you come to learn, and Dan is a year older. Her mother thinks this is very scandalous and that if they’re in the same room unsupervised, they’ll jump each other. Sharon is offended that her mother thinks so little of her self control, but she’ll bite her lip when she admits there’s an overlook above the falls where she and Dan have had a few late-night rendezvous. “Not that we did anything,” she says, flushing deep red, “just make out stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Moms are the worst,” you say, nodding wisely and thanking whoever is listening that you didn't have kids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a little less fun when she points her attention toward your relationship with Stan--she is </span>
  <em>
    <span>unrelenting</span>
  </em>
  <span> and convinced that you two are, as she delicately puts it, “screwing”. You try to convince her she could not be further from the truth, but she isn’t buying it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nice to have a little bit of your life to yourself, but your favorite part of the whole setup is getting to drive the Diablo. When it’s nice out, you roll down the windows and put in one of Stan’s many tapes to feel the wind in your hair and belt your heart out to some power ballads—the kind that Stan insists he doesn't like that much, but definitely sings his heart out to when he thinks you aren't paying attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes when you get home in the afternoons, you can't find Stan anywhere. You usually don’t look very hard, because it’s his house and for all you know, he could still be out with Dan. Usually he eventually comes out of the gift shop door looking dazed and exhausted. You definitely wonder what he’s up to those nights, but also feel like maybe it’s better not to ask. He always seems...</span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he returns back from wherever he was hiding. It might have something to do with his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when you come home after sunset and don’t immediately see Stan in the living areas, you aren’t too surprised. You put away the couple of groceries you brought home and find the singular cookbook in the house. It's as big as a cinderblock and maybe about as heavy, too, but it has everything you could ever need. Tonight, you’re going to experiment. You flip to the index in the back and look for acorn squash, the name of the weird green thing you brought home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The evening wanes on quietly. You sing to yourself quietly or talk to the vegetables as you chop them, because you’re just bad at being quiet. It’s not like the squash minds. When the soup is on a simmer and nearly done, you decide to go looking for Stan. He values food highly, possibly even more than whatever it is that he's tinkering with, so it’s worth at least asking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First you go through the gift shop door. You stop for a moment in the dim room lit only by the moon. It's a comfortingly familiar sight, but odd without the warmth of summer. You wrap your arms around yourself and carry on to Stan’s office. You knock on the door, wait, knock on the door...he doesn't answer. You press your palm to the door. “Stan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's no answer. You open the door, thinking maybe you’ll find him sleeping at the desk, but there’s nothing. No one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhhh,” you say to the empty room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it’s back through the gift shop to check the showroom. You say his name into the yawning darkness of the room, and get no answer. You would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> admit this to Stan, but in this moment you're too spooked to go in. You shut the door and scurry back into the house, closing and locking the door behind you. Hope Stan’s not hiding somewhere over there, cause he’ll be walking around the house to get inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next you try his room, knocking on the door and calling his name. When you get nothing again, you begin to turn away to continue the search, pause, and double back. You can’t resist the chance to peek into his room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stick your face through the small crack that you’ve opened. There’s a pyramid of empty Pitt cans on one side of the bed, his bed is unmade, there’s a pile of dirty(?) clothes in the corner, and he has a full-length mirror on one wall. There’s not really anything of interest here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You continue on down the hall, rapping your knuckles on doors and sticking your head in. Some of the rooms are completely empty, making you wonder why this house has so many rooms, and how it seems somehow...bigger on the inside?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a huge copier and a few boxes of what looks like spare parts in one room, just a bunch of dusty boxes in another one, a punching bag propped up in the corner of one otherwise empty room, and one room </span>
  <em>
    <span>full</span>
  </em>
  <span> of stuff. You walk into this one and lift the flaps of a few boxes. One side of the room seems to have sciencey things, like books and microscopes and, y'know, sciencey things. The other side has a few displays he only pulls out on special occasions and some spare taxidermy parts. Really, Stan’s fascination with stuffed animal carcasses would be a little more concerning to you if you didn't know him as well as you do. It's creepy at best and straight-up serial killer otherwise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last room is much more put together than the others. It has a couch that doesn't look very cozy, the ugliest blue carpet you've ever seen, shelves full of books lining the back wall, and a desk tucked in front of them. The top of the filing cabinet is filled with old trophies and awards. Once again, you can't help yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stand on your tiptoes to see them in the half-light, reading </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanford Pines</span>
  </em>
  <span> across the bottom of them all. One for a fifth grade science fair, a framed article published in a college newspaper, one for another science fair, tenth grade and regional this time. He has a lot of accolades gathered here, but most of them are from twenty or more years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Framed over the desk are his diplomas with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanford Pines</span>
  </em>
  <span> in neat print across them. Well that settles it, then, he really is a PhD. Well, unless those are forged. Which, with Stan, you wouldn’t be too surprised to learn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nearly jump right out of your skin at the question. Stan’s voice behind you isn’t angry, just curious and maybe a little tired. You turn on the door, guilty already. “I’m sorry. I was looking for you, then I saw all your...science stuff, and…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays in the doorway. “S’okay. What were you looking for me for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On your way to join him in the hallway, you stop beside the door. Surrounded by dust, there's a pair of glasses. You pick them up and look toward Stan. “Are these yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans into the room and takes the glasses from your hand and replaces them exactly where they were before, not a speck of dust out of place. “They’re my brother’s. Come on, let’s get out of here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as you're out of the room, he pulls the door shut and stalks back down the hall. You follow him into the living room hesitantly. You just crossed some kind of boundary on accident. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit on the couch while Stan falls into the armchair with a sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long uncomfortable silence, you ask, “Where were you anyway? I searched the whole house and I couldn’t find you anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was in the basement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink a few times, frowning. He says it like it’s a very obvious thing, with a bored look in his eyes and absolutely no emotion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know the shack has a basement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s secret.” His tone is flat. “Experiment’s down there. I can’t tell you much about it so just--stop asking, okay? The basement is secret because everyone here is nosy, and it’s dangerous so I don’t want you down there anyway. Got it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He called </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> nosy not too long ago, but not in this gruff, ‘get fucked’ tone of voice he's using right now. He's never directed that tone at you. You feel like he’s trying to scold you, and he isn’t altogether failing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How dangerous?” you venture in a small voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It can’t turn itself on Charlie. Chill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chill. He just— You were worried about him, and he just told you the Shack has a secret basement, and he's telling you to chill?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a word, you get up and go to the kitchen. You get a bowl, get yourself some soup, and sit down at the table. You've half a mind to take it to you room, but soup doesn't make a good lap food. You just eat as quietly as you can, alone. The TV never does turn on in the other room, but Stan never starts snoring either. What’s he doing—just sitting in the dark?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You push your soup bowl away and rest your head in your hands. Times like these remind you that you don't really know Stan that well, and he lies as easily as he breathes. You've seen him do it to tons of people, you saw him do it six days a week over the Summer, but for some reason you thought he was always telling the truth to you. Naive. How stupidly naive to think he’s trustworthy just because he’s nice to you and flashes you a dashing smile every now and again. People like Stan don't do favors for people like you without an angle. What’s his angle?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You leave your half-eaten meal on the table and march back into the living room. Stan’s still blankly staring holes into the wall across from him, until you edge into his vision with your arms crossed over your chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why didn’t I know about the basement?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks. “I don't know. There’s an entrance to it </span>
  <em>
    <span>outside</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so I dunno.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You frown, trying to remember the doors. You can picture them in your mind’s eye, but you never really thought about it. There aren't stairs anywhere in the house, not that you’ve seen. Maybe the outside door is the only access point. But it's been </span>
  <em>
    <span>months</span>
  </em>
  <span>, how has he never mentioned it? Because it’s a secret?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts his hand over his face. Even though you have yet to say anything in response, he groans. “I want to tell you everything, Charlie, but I can't. It’s complicated. And if that makes you trust me less, fine. I can take it. But I just wish you would understand and stop asking questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't want to be lied to anymore,” you say quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up and finally meets your eyes. His gaze is intense and tired and sad, and a hundred other things you wish it wouldn't be. Because in that moment, all it says to you is that you’ll never know the whole truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands up and steps toward you with arms open for a hug, but you sidestep away. He stops cold, dropping his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight Stan,” you mumble. He doesn't say anything as you disappear down the hallway.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The next day is as dreary, rainy, and cold as your mood. Business is slow at the store, so you half-heartedly sweep aisles and restock shelves through the whole shift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You come home soaking wet and exhausted in every meaning of the word. You just want to heat up some leftover soup, crawl into bed, and sleep for a year. Instead, Stan meets you at the door with a towel. You eyeball him as you take it and scrub your hair dry first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubs his hand over his jaw while he watches you dry off in silence. It’s almost creepy for a second until he says, “I'm sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hand the towel back to him and put your backpack down by the door. This is the last thing you want to deal with right now, but it looks like you don't have a choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was a total jerkwad last night. I'm just...I'm tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know that code. That's what he said when he was talking about his brother, and it was what you said when you hit rock bottom and wondered how much longer you could survive your husband before you made yourself an arsenic smoothie. It was what you said when your sister opened the door at dawn after your escape, and it's what you said when she made you go to the doctor the next day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a very loaded word, and if you really listen, sometimes it has a lot of different meanings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I forgive you.” You give him a small, tentative smile. He returns in kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I rented Back To The Future. I also made dinner. ”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your smile grows slightly. “Alright Captain Tryhard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins and turns toward the living room, continuing to talk as you tag along. He tells you what he made and how he made it, how the guy at the video rental store said mullets aren't cool anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're only half-listening. While you do forgive him for last night, you still feel leery. From now on, you promise to remember that Stanford Pines is more than he seems, and he’s not to be trusted blindly.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I was looking at the Mystery Shack backgrounds for reference the other day and saw cellar doors on the side of the building. I'm mad that I never noticed them before now.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Holy shit this chapter was a PAIN. TW for alcohol use, underage drinking, and the usual abuse allusions. We're eventually gonna discuss that I promise.</p><p>Thanks to 3hobbitsinatrenchcoat for beta'ing this chapter!! They have great fics too, you should check em out!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The leaves change so gradually, you almost don't notice—sort of like the slowly boiling frog who doesn't realize he’s being cooked alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite your promise to keep emotionally distant from Stan, you keep finding yourself growing more and more flustered around him. Your eyes have begun to linger on his broad shoulders when you do dishes together at night, and you're almost certain his eyes are starting to drift toward your ass when you bend to put away said dishes. He stops wearing boxers and tank tops around the house, opting instead for pajama pants and Mystery Shack tees, and you're pretty sure it has nothing to do with the growing chill. The easy touches you've shared—on the couch with your thighs pressed against each other, in the kitchen when he puts a hand on your shoulder as he passes behind you, touching each other’s hands when you know the other needs comfort, all of it turns to blushing avoidance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes to the grocery store one night and comes home with marshmallows and graham crackers. You make chocolate-less s'mores for his oversight and tell terrible, off the cuff spooky stories around the fire that only serve to make you both laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He insists on a jack-o-lantern on the porch, because you “have a reputation to upkeep as the local spooky experts”, so he spends two hours in the kitchen with knives that aren't made for carving and bends three metal spoons in the process of removing the guts. But you toast the seeds in the oven and you both get a good two hours of entertainment out of it, so you consider it a win.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You go to the library in town and spend the entire time being shushed by librarians because apparently, the two of you have no inside voices. But he finds a cookbook with old sugar cookie recipes and, very secretly, you find a recipe for a Greek dish called Moussaka that vaguely resembles an American lasagne. You spend an entire weekend decorating cookies just for the hell of it, and while he's out working with Dan, you make his home smell like his mother’s cooking. You swear he almost cries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're the frog in the pot, and he's the open flame beneath you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One Wednesday afternoon, he strides into the living room, stands in front of where you sit on the couch, and says, “We’re going out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You close your book to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>you can't make me</span>
  </em>
  <span> like a defiant two year old, but he continues on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow is Halloween and I refuse to let it pass without celebrating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Halloween is for kids, how are we supposed to celebrate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clutches a hand to his chest in a Shakespearean manner, mouth agape with a faked gasp. “For </span>
  <em>
    <span>children</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Have you no inner child?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look down at yourself, dressed in a t-shirt you’ve had since high school, and your knuckles that are dry and cracking in the cold weather. You look back up to Stan with your lips pressed together in an </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh well</span>
  </em>
  <span> kind of way. “I think I killed my inner child the first time I filed taxes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waves that away. “Pfft, that’s why I don’t do them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t--!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You quickly pull your socked feet up underneath you before Stan just sits on them. He's still dressed in his logging clothes; sturdy brown overalls over a cable-knit sweater, and a knit cap tugged over his curls. You find it embarrassingly attractive. “Sprott’s farm is closing for the season tonight, half the town is gonna be there. We are gonna go, and we are gonna celebrate Halloween.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shrug. “Alright, yeah, I guess.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Sprott’s farm is huge. Apparently it goes back a few Sprott generations and makes half of its money on attractions like the ramshackle petting zoo, and pick-your-own experiences. Tonight it’s decked out to the max, with big blow-up pumpkins and ghosts, plastic spiders hung from trees, and blinking orange and purple string lights. Walkways are carved into a big open field by hay bales blocking out routes like hedges. Pumpkins and gourds are scattered all over the place, and it seems like there’s a different kind of food every fifth step you take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan is all about the food. Within the first ten minutes of arriving, he has a beer in one hand and a caramel apple in the other, and you’re holding his bag of warm kettle corn. It's about half as big as you are. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, I’m set for at least the next thirty minutes,” he says. There’s caramel on the side of his face. “Where to next? Apple picking, corn maze, pumpkin patch? There’s a haunted house up the hill, but I heard the theme is diabetes, so maybe skip that one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh. “Noted. Well, if you want to pick some apples I can make a pie later on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head whips over to look at you, eyes comically wide. “You mean it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhh, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hitch a hayride to the orchards together. Stan inhales the caramel apple on the way there, downs the last of his beer, and tucks the kettle corn into the apple box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts out picking, but quickly loses interest. He stands by the apple box instead, watching kids zip around the orchard and laugh among themselves. Every time you look over at him, he's either smiling idly or actively making faces at the children. It makes your heart swell in your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of taking the hayride back, you and Stan opt to walk the dusty dirt road in the growing darkness. The sun’s just dipped below the trees, leaving stripes of gold and deep shadow across fields and painting the sky purple and pink. Stan’s holding the apple box, because he never lets you carry anything that could remotely be considered ‘heavy’. He always waves it off with some comment about his mom teaching him manners, but you know it's just because he’s nice. Even when he’s cranky and grumbling and dragging his feet, he’s nice. You’d say he wears his heart on his sleeve, but maybe tucked into his pocket is a little more accurate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pluck a blushing apple out of the box and turn it over in your hands. It has no imperfections, besides being a little smaller and lumpier than those at the grocery store. You bite into it, savoring the crisp sweetness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few more bites, you have to cup your hand beneath your chin to catch a drop of juice. You wipe off the rest as best as you can. Feeling eyes on you, you look to Stan. His lips are parted and he looks...you don't know if there’s a word for it. Hungry, maybe? Entranced? He shakes it off and shifts his gaze straight ahead of him before you can puzzle it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You duck your head between your shoulders, cheeks burning red against the cold breeze. You're not sure how much longer you can keep doing this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Stan walks the apples to the car, you walk up to the nearest food stand, proudly present your ID, and purchase alcohol for the first time in many, many years. You wait for Stan near the entrance, and by the time he’s made the short trip back, half the drink is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops in front of you, blinking rapidly while he visibly tries to process this development. “You know that’s alcohol, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, geez, that explains why they asked for my ID to buy it.” You hold up the cup and look at it suspiciously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs off his surprise quickly, then continues to walk on at your side. “I just thought you didn’t drink, that’s all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t for a long time.” Your tone is back to semi-serious now. You stare into your drink and consider telling him why, but honestly, he doesn’t need to know and you don’t feel like talking about it. He can just deal with this development, because you’re sure you can’t make it through this pseudo-date without it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s fully dark now. The kids in costumes are walking between buildings and food stands, holding hollowed-out plastic pumpkins for candy. They’re darting around and shrieking between each other in the way that sugared-up kids do, while their parents lag behind. It seems like everyone without a kid is headed the same direction--the same one that you and Stan are headed, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smell the fire before you see it, but when you crest the hill you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> it from yards away. The warmth is a welcome comfort against the chill that’s been biting at your face for hours. Your drink is nearly empty now, sitting heavy in your stomach. That lightheaded buzzy feeling is setting in—you just hope it takes the edge off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan, Charlie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You both turn and see Sharon seated next to Dan, clinging tightly to his arm. She’s all freckles and smiles and hot pink lipgloss. Stan changes course and sits down near them, and suddenly you're surrounded by a swarm of teens and young adults. Some of them have beer in hand that's probably less than legal, and you're a little proud to see that Sharon and Dan aren't among that group. That doesn't stop you from pinching a can off the others though—at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> can legally consume it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit quietly and nurse the beer while Dan and other young guys talk with Stan. Apparently they all work logging together, so they’re all friendly. You think. One of them just took a handful of Stan’s hair and pulled while everyone else laughed, but he’s laughing along. If he wasn’t, you might have had to punch some teenagers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only person you know here is Sharon, and it seems a bit silly to go sit beside her now. This isn't the cafeteria in high school, and you're twice Sharon’s age. It's not an appropriate or realistic place to seek a friendship, especially when you're already drunk. But sitting in Stan’s shadow feels too much like those corporate parties and the tight leash </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> kept you on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You get another beer and move to sit beside Sharon. She’s engulfed in Dan’s big puffer jacket, roasting a marshmallow over the coals at the edge of the fire. Her smile is like a glimpse of the sun for all its vibrance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never seen ya outside the store before!” she exclaims. She throws one arm (and the half-foot of Dan’s sleeve dangling off the end of it) around your shoulder and pulls you in for a sideways hug. “How are you and your hunk?” She quirks her eyebrows suggestively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation quickly turns into a drinking game, where you take one big gulp every time Sharon tries to redirect the conversation to your nonexistent love life. It does occur to you that this is probably a terrible idea, because alcohol loosens the tongue and yours is holding onto a lot of unspoken words, but you’re already too buzzed to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t know when Sharon left, but suddenly you’re sitting alone again and Stan’s knee is at your back. One of the guys is saying something to him, but they’re calling him ‘Mullet’. That punching urge arises again, but when you whip your head around to see the offender, the world goes sideways. Whoa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit!” Stan grabs your shoulder suddenly, preventing you from careening right into the remains of the bonfire. “Charlie, you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hold up the mostly empty beer can in your hand up. “Mighta had too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan mumbles to himself, then puts his hands under your arms to hoist you to your feet. The can finds its way into a trash can, and he holds an arm around you as you stumble down the hill toward the field you’re parked in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Diablo looks like it’s standing alone out there, since nearly everyone else has left. You trip over your own feet and would have hit the ground if not for Stan, who snatches you up--hand under knees, shoulders in a vice grip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that headrush clears, you pound at his chest and demand to be put down. He ignores you the first time, so in your drunken logic, you say it again but louder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shh, fuck Charlie, people are gonna think I’m kidnappin’ you out here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can walk just fine,” you insist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts your feet back on the ground and you immediately sway. You correct yourself quickly though, and walk in a mostly straight line toward the car. When you get there, Stan opens the door and puts his hand on your head as you duck in, like you’re getting arrested or something. But then you’re glad he did so when you whack your head on the side of the car and his hand takes the damage instead of your noggin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he gets in on the driver’s side, he’s still muttering curses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry I drank s’much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at you and smiles widely. It doesn't reach his eyes at all. “Just sit back, we’ll be home soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You must drift off in the car, because the next thing you know, he’s trying to pull you out of it. You get out and pause standing up for a moment, swaying. He moves to touch you and you smack him away a little, telling him again that you can stand up by yourself. He walks ahead and opens the door. You trip in the threshold and like he was waiting for it, he just catches you up in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time when he straightens you up, he doesn’t let go. He has his hands on your arms and tries to steer you forward, but you twist back to face him and end up bumping your chest right into his. Both of you stop moving, and the silence following all that scuffling is deafening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can only see his silhouette by the light of the moon, tinting his strong jaw blue. He has a little more than stubble now, maybe just the very beginning of a winter beard. You try to picture him with a beard and eventually, decide you’d like to see that. You brush your fingers along his jawline and wonder, how would the curve of that jaw fit to the curve of your lips? What’s it like to kiss a man with a beard? What would it be like to kiss him right now, this very moment?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan grasps your hand and pulls it away from his face. His voice is a little hoarse when he speaks. “Charlie, you're drunk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You deflate and rest your head against his chest, pouting. “Am not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your head rises and falls with his breaths for a moment, then his voice rumbles in your ear. “Let's get you to bed. Come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M’husband used to spike my drinks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan stiffens. You're just sober enough to notice it, just drunk enough not to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why I don’t drink.” You giggle. “I guess I do drink now though. I trust you, you're nice. And you smell good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a long, slow breath. Your ear is still pressed to his big barrel chest and you have no intention of moving. “Charlie,” he says again, “you're drunk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mom is drunk. Hey, how come you even let me stay here in the first place? Oh, and is your diploma for--forged? Is that the word?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, it’s time for bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He half-carries you to your room as you obstinately drag your feet. Of course, it doesn't seem like much against this mountain of muscle. He tugs your sneakers off, pulls the covers back, and puts his big hand palm-down on your head. He ruffles your hair and pushes you down toward your pillows in the same motion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You're gonna be so hungover in the morning.” The door shuts behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah, but that’s a problem for tomorrow-Charlie. Right-now-Charlie is warm and dizzy, and your shirt smells like woodsmoke and Stan’s weird cologne he almost never wears. Sleep finds you quickly.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No TW today, folks!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You do, indeed, wake up with a raging headache and an entire foul-tasting desert in your mouth. After chugging water directly from the bathroom faucet, you brush your teeth better than you ever have in your </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then follow the smell of coffee out into the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no sign of Stan in the kitchen, but there is a sticky note on the coffee pot. In Stan’s blocky script it reads, “working in the basement, hope you’re not dead”. You snort and stick it to the cabinet above you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You lean against the counter and sip your coffee. Hopefully it’ll take the edge off that headache. On the bright side, you’ll be able to sleep it off since you don't have to work tonight. You take another sip of coffee, seriously considering it. It would be so easy to just go right back to bed after this, there’s no one here to judge you. Maybe you will. It's only...noon, it's noon. Maybe you shouldn't go back to bed. Now, a nap on the couch—that could be done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You let your mind wander as you absently stare across the kitchen and continue to drink down your coffee. The box of apples on the table brings back memories from last night with a jolt. Stan’s indescribable gaze, the teasing of Sharon and those logger boys, the fact that Stan bodily, completely </span>
  <em>
    <span>picked you up off the ground at least once</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You get a fuzzy glimpse of his face outlined in blue...oh my fucking stars above, did you kiss him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You hold your mug beneath your nose as you furrow your eyebrows and really try to think it through. He said you were drunk, said it was bedtime...no. No, thankfully, you don't think you kissed him. But the thought still leaves your cheeks burning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it can't happen. You can't kiss Stan, because he’s keeping things from you, and you aren't even sure if his diploma is real or where he went to school or if he even likes you like that. And you're friends, and he owns this house and could kick you out at a moment’s notice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides all that, Stan is—is </span>
  <em>
    <span>sexy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Confidence rolls off of him in waves, he’s 90% personality, and he takes every chance to make a suggestive joke that he gets. If you have to hear “that's what she said” one more time, you might snap. Stan knows sex, and he likes sex, and he wants sex in a relationship. What good are you to him, the one who can't even look yourself in the mirror most days, that's how excellent </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> relationship to your body is. If you had your way, you would live exclusively as a floating head until the burn of unwanted touches began to fade from your body. Right now, it's too much. The thought of kissing him softly and sweetly—innocently and without lust, it’s warm and comfortable and pure </span>
  <em>
    <span>fantasy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, simply because you could never handle what comes after. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So even </span>
  <em>
    <span>if</span>
  </em>
  <span> Stan reciprocated your feelings, even if he agreed to it, it wouldn't work out in the long run. He deserves someone who can keep up with him, and that person isn't you. Not...not right now, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You throw back the last of your coffee and put the mug down beside the pot. You’ll be coming back for more later, but for now it’s naptime.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>You startle awake when the door slams shut, and Stan subsequently says “oh shit”.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After taking a moment for your pounding heart to calm down, you sit up and stretch. Late afternoon sun is streaming into the hallway through the kitchen window. You have sufficiently slept the day away, and feel much better for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan drops his boots and jacket by the door, then steps into your line of vision. You immediately notice that his red knit cap, usually lumpy for the curls underneath it, is suspiciously small. He’s got a grin on his face that spells out nothin but trouble, too. Before you can even begin to put those pieces together, he plucks the cap off his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tah-dahhh!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His grin gets a little smaller.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You blink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He crosses his arms over his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you,” you finally force out, “and what have you done with Stan?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His grin comes back full force as he runs his fingers through the short puff of hair that’s left on his head. “You like it? I can tell you like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You toss the blanket aside and stand up, walking a full circle around him before stopping in front of him again. “What have you done,” you whisper in horror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs that loud, hearty laugh you love so much. “You don’t like it, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, it’s just--” all you can do for a moment is work your jaw, trying to find words. “Stan! It’s so short!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He laughs again. “I was tired’a lookin like a hobo. Can you blame me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You let out a little frustrated puff of air from your nose. “You didn’t look like a hobo, you looked like--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raises an eyebrow. “Like?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You duck your head with your lips pursed tight. “Like...like a big soft lumberjack man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His arms wrap around you, big and warm, and he laughs so hard he can hardly breathe. “Sorry,” he gasps, “sorry. I’m not laughing at you, just--you’re the only one who liked it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not true!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So true. Between Dan and the guy at the video store and the guy at the bar last week who thought he needed to ID me based on the mullet alone--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You wrestle away from him. He lets go immediately, so it isn’t difficult. “What do you mean? Who cares what they think, did </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> like it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes dart back and forth for a moment, searching the carpet for his answer. “It was never an intentional mullet, it just kinda...happened.” He puts a smile back on, a little softer than the one before it. “It’s fine Charlie, I like it this way too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You frown very deeply and very intentionally. After another moment spent examining the new hairdo, you reach out slowly to touch it. He doesn’t stop you, so you proceed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s trimmed so close on the sides that your fingernails brush his scalp as you run your fingers through it. On top it’s a big bunch of messy but uniform curls. A little bit of gel residue sticks behind on your fingers as you twirl a curl between them, but you figure that’s temporary. Stan never puts product in his hair, you doubt he’ll start now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly you become very aware that his eyes are on you. Your hand pauses where it’s at, curled just behind his ear, and you nearly stop breathing when your eyes meet. You’re...standing very close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pull your hand back to your chest. “You’re, uh, gonna be cold now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what the hat’s for,” he says quietly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. Yeah. Yeah of course.” You clear your throat and take a big step backwards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan rubs his hand over his newly bare neck. It looks so weird--like a different person completely. It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just...new. Very new.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You eat dinner yet?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. You?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “C’mon, I hear breakfast for dinner calling my name.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>You eat on the couch; Stancakes, bacon, eggs over easy, and cinnamon fried apples. With a new pot of coffee, of course. Stan seems to be as immune to caffeine's effects as you are. Besides, he’s been staying up late in the basement pretty frequently these days, you suppose it might help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The movie Stan started up is only a third of the way over when you both finish up, plates stacked on the dino skull at Stan’s left. You’ve really gotta ask him if it’s the real deal sometime--it’s a little bit frighteningly realistic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shift toward Stan a little, letting your leg fall against his. Almost automatically, he puts his hand on your knee. You want to just lay your head on his shoulder and go back to sleep. Your stomach is comfortably full and heavy, making your eyes droop and thoughts fuzzy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s laugh rumbles in his chest along with the laugh track on TV, and you can feel it reverberate in his shoulder, which, oops, you are also pressed against now. In fact, you've effectively cornered him. There’s an entire couch to your right, and he’s tucked against the arm of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, fuck it. The comfort is worth it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You tap his hand, which he takes as a signal to move it. He doesn't look away from the tv as you shift to get comfortable. That is, until your head comes down on his thigh, and you feel his body jolt. You're stretched out like a cat, facing the TV with Stan's leg as a pillow. It's a little lumpy, but comfortable all the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a tense moment, you think you've gone too far. Stan doesn’t relax, so you can’t either. You’re just about to get up and walk-of-shame to your own bedroom, but then his hand comes down on your shoulder, and you melt into the couch. Mm, Stan’s hand is warm on your shoulder, and the only light in the room is from the TV.  You try to keep watching for a moment, but your eyes droop shut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gun fires on the tv. You crack open your eyes to look. You’re too tired to keep up with the plot of the movie, but you want to know which cowboy just met their fate in the shootout. but you're pretty sure Stan has watched this before. With you, within the last month. He doesn’t mind watching the same things over and over, but you get bored easily. And...sleepy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckles, and you reflexively open your eyes again to see what he's laughing at. It's just a commercial on the tv, so—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh. He's laughing at you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You tilt your head back to look up at him. From this angle, his jaw is even more prominent. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don't mind me,” he says in a whisper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stick your tongue out half-heartedly, earning another chuckle, but do as you're told. His thumb rubs your shoulder absently, back and forth. His other hand finds its way to your head, resting on top of your hair. You try to take a snapshot of this moment in your mind’s eye, storing away the safe, warm, peaceful feeling deep inside you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You fall asleep trying to capture it.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Stan realizes you're asleep when you let a little open-mouthed snore out. He looks down, leaning forward to see your face, and can't help his soft smile. You're such a dork. A handsome, sweet, </span>
  <em>
    <span>smart</span>
  </em>
  <span> dork, and he doesn't know why you're still here. What did you call him earlier? A soft lumberjack? He smiles to himself in the dark, shaking his head. You have no idea how wrong you are.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wishes he could be whatever you think he is. A soft man, a trustworthy man, a noble man. Every time you pay him some undue compliment like that, he tucks it away to remind himself just how much he’s lying his ass off. To himself, and to your face, every fucking day. He’s desperate to tell you the truth and put all the lies at your feet for judgement. He wants you to have the chance to be angry and berate him and maybe forgive him. He wants to hold your waist and kiss your temple and tell you how much he utterly adores you and holds everything you say so close to his heart, even if it’s just to remind himself of how horrible he really is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> He's lived as different people before, but that was just himself with another name. Now he feels like he's trying to play two parts at once: Stanford and Stanley. He’s become some weird conglomerate of himself and his twin, some third child that goes by Stan instead of Lee and doesn’t disappoint his father. It’s exhausting, frankly, to keep up with what’s safe to say and what isn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t even mean to tell you about the basement the other night, he was gonna keep that one secret, but then you were in Ford’s room poking around and...having to see it all </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Ford’s glasses have a layer of dust on them too thick to see out of. It’s been, what, a year and a half now? And he’s not any damn closer to opening that damn portal than he was when he began. Every time he does something like yesterday, going to be a normal human, he feels more guilty than a sinner in a church, then feels like he has to burn the midnight oil as a sacrifice to recompense. Like last night and this morning, when he worked straight through the night without a wink of sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he has dreams in the early morning bleakness that he wakes up and you're on the pillow beside him. He rubs his hand down your arm, cuddles up to your back, kisses your neck, tousles your hair. You're warm and you fit against the curve of his body just right, and you make him feel like he's </span>
  <em>
    <span>worth</span>
  </em>
  <span> something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then his alarm goes off and he lays in the grey stillness thinking about how it would really be. You don't know he's a criminal. Sure, you've seen him shoplift the occasional knickknack or candy bar, but you don't know that he once did nothing but steal. You don't know about the smuggling operations, you don't know about the high scale thefts that could still land you in a federal prison if you were to get booked in the US. You don't know that he's been to prison in three countries, that he's lived a life full of shame and failure after failure after failure. You don't even know his real name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course he wants you, but he wants you honest. He's not going to wrap you up in his silver-tongued lies when you've already been through so much and deserve so much better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stir in his lap. He lowers his leg a little, stretching his foot out in front of him so it’ll be a more comfortable pillow. You look so peaceful, and even after whatever it is you went through, you trust him so much. He can't--</span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>--make any move until you know the truth. He knows that if he does it now, you’ll hate him. But if he doesn't tell you the truth, you’ll eventually figure it out anyway and hate him even harder. The only way to do this is to simply not have you. To keep his hands where they ought to be, and stop letting his mind wander at night. But he isn't sure how long he can keep that up, either. Every time your eyes drift, or you make some half-flirty joke, he goes red and his heart races like he's in grade school. If you were anyone else, he’d have ripped your clothes off by now. He can tell you don't want that, he's not stupid, but that's the only part of a relationship he’s ever been good at. Whenever partners started to talk about their feelings in the past, he just locks up and bails. No matter how hard he’s tried, he’s never been able to eke the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span> from his mouth. Well, not sober anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite his better judgement, he runs his hand down the arm of your sweater. The knit is chunky and soft and too big for your body. He rests his hand on your hip, feeling shameful even as he does so, and rests his head against the back of the sofa. Within minutes, he's asleep too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I was really conflicted on whether or not I should include that last bit from Stan's POV, but then I got attached to it. He's just such a sad boi TT-TT</p>
<p>I really really value all the comments and kudos. If you like this fic, would you mind sharing it with your friends and sharing the word? Thanks for reading!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'M BAAAACK! Thanks for your patience and all the lovely comments while you waited, everyone! I'm glad there's so many people enjoying this story, you have no idea &lt;3</p>
<p>I've built up a little bit of a backlog (only three chapters, oof), but I didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer. I'm going to aim for updating once weekly from now on, but ya'll understand that I have other RL obligations that might slow me down from time to time. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy the extra-long update!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Stan, are you quite alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stanford, sitting across the table from you, is squinting into the middle distance. He's angled his whole body toward the counter of Greasy’s behind you, and every single bit of his face has scrunched up with the effort of...whatever he’s doing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm trying to read the flippin’ special!” He squints just a little bit harder, then gives up with a sigh. “Can you read it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You read it off to him, to which he says “ew” like a child and looks back to the menu in his hand. You stare at the board above the counter a little longer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can't read that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives you a flat look over the top of his menu. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nooo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I can read it just fine.” He indignantly flips the paper out with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>snap</span>
  </em>
  <span> and puts his nose back in it. “I'm surprised you </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> read it,” he mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You look between Stan and the board a few more times. “Stan, those letters have got to be four inches tall, and they're written very clearly. Do you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Susan stops in front of the table, interrupting you on accident. Stan gives his order and you give yours, Susan refills his coffee mug, and the two of you are left alone again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You lean forward with your forearms resting on the table, speaking quieter than you usually would. Gossip spreads like wildfire in this town. “Do you need glasses?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He makes a few noncommittal mumbling sounds while he flips the paper menu over and produces a stub of a golf pencil from a pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You lower your gaze to the table, staring down plastic salt and pepper shakers, and think back to the glasses in the room that time (and Stan) forgot. He said they were his brother’s—his </span>
  <em>
    <span>twin’s</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If one brother needed glasses, it was pretty likely that the other would as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“When's the last time you had an eye exam?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckles, bent over his paper menu and sketching intently. “You're funny, but don't quit yer day job.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm serious! Your eyesight will only get worse without corrective lenses. You should make an appointment.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, that's not gonna happen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You lean in a little farther, trying to see his drawing.. He instantly wraps a protective arm around it, hiding it from you. You scoff. “Don't tell me you're afraid of the eye doctor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs right back at you. “Pbbt, as if. I simply do not care enough to put money into it, that's all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh come on. I know you're cheap but that’s bad even for you. What if I make the appointment for you? You won't have to do anything but show up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No reply, just more scribbling. He glances up a few times. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright fine. I’ll pay for it if you go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His head snaps up. “Like hell! I don't need you to pay my bills.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, so I'm allowed to buy breakfast, but not an actual assistive device that would improve your quality of life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cut it out, you know I get confused when you use big words. And it's your turn to pay for breakfast anyway!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm-hm, just like it's been ‘my turn’ the last four times?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tucks his head down between his shoulders and grumbles to himself. He keeps drawing for a silent few moments, then sighs. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I will go to the eye doctor. Are you happy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You tilt your chin up and give him a victorious, smug little smile. “Yes I am.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the food comes around, Stan settles his plate right on top of his drawing. You move on to other topics, mostly goofing around between bites. The tension caused by the Halloween drinking of last week has eased a bit, and you've grown used to Stan’s new hairdo. You notice with no small amount of confusion that sometimes, when the sleeve of his shirt slips, you can see a blue rubber band on his wrist. Maybe he’s just forgotten that he doesn't need it anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Meals consumed, you both stand. You hesitate by the table, deliberately taking your time rummaging around your wallet for a tip. You do so until he isn't paying attention anymore, give a glance over your shoulder to be sure, then lift the edge of his plate and yank out the paper menu. You fold it and stuff it in your coat pocket without looking, drop the tip on the table, and turn to follow Stan out the door. You’d make a kickass spy. Well, if the job involved being a nosy little shit. Government secrets weren't really as interesting as Stan the Mystery Man. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Back in the privacy of your own room, you take out the paper and carefully unfold it. There’s Stan’s usual doodles around the periphery of the paper; cartoonish sailboats and renderings of the shack, a stack of flapjacks he must have seen at another table. In the center, exploding with intricate details and bold pencil lines, is something more lifelike than you’ve ever seen him draw. It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, leaning forward at the table with a sketch of the diner’s counter behind you. There’s more detail in the rendering of your face than anywhere else—crosshatching to define your cheeks, a dark shadow beneath your nose, very careful and delicate lines defining your mouth. Even though it’s your own image, the one you avoid so often in the mirror these days...it's beautiful.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span> are you tearing up? You fold the paper (carefully this time) and tuck it into your flea-market-nightstand drawer and sit on the edge of the bed. It's just a drawing! Just a doodle from Stan, who’s constantly doodling these days anyway. He usually isn't as protective of his drawings as he was today, but maybe…maybe he was just worried he’d mess it up or something. Maybe he thought it wasn't all that good. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn't matter. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You flop back on the mattress and stare at the ceiling while emotions swirl and twist in your chest. You know what it is, but you're not ready to admit it. Ever since Halloween, that drunken near-kiss, Stan’s been acting different. He leaves distance between you when he sits on the couch, the warmth of his laughter is just a little bit dulled, and he’s spent an impossible amount of time in the basement. He disappears after dinner and sometimes you don't see him again until you hear him in the kitchen at two or three in the morning, then showering across the hall at four, and always leaving for the logging camp by five in the morning. It seems like a lot of work just to avoid you, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>stings</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it’s better to know, right? You got drunk and made it weird, and now he probably feels like you betrayed his friendship. He clearly doesn't want anything besides friendship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You put your hand over your sternum, trying to will away the pain behind it. You need to just stay focused on work, keep reading the dumb self-help books, and get your life in order. This is step three: the rest of your life, and right now you’re doing a pretty terrible job of it.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>For the first time, you and Stan encounter a “we both need the car” situation. Stan’s eye appointment is today (which you did end up having to schedule, because Stan was hoping you’d forget and drop it), and you have to work something like forty minutes afterward. To save on gas and hassle, Stan shrugs and tells you to come with him to the appointment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna look like a fuckin’ nerd,” he says over the Michael Jackson coming from the radio. His fingers are tapping on the steering wheel, but not to the beat of the song. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks nervous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No you won’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he insists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sigh. “Stan, you’re not unattractive by any means. Glasses aren’t gonna change that. Besides, some people like that sexy librarian look.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He barks a short laugh, but he never says anything else. He just keeps his eyes on the road and his fingers keep tapping the wheel all the way to the office.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Diablo purrs to a stop in the parking lot, and you sit there uncertainly for a moment. “Did you want me to come in with you, or…?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uhh, well you can’t wait out here, it’s too cold.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s nearly sixty degrees outside, uncharacteristically warm for early November and tolerable with your coat, but you simply choose not to point that out. “I guess I’ll come in then. I brought a book.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cool.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He climbs out of the car without another word, and you trail behind him with your backpack clutched tightly in front of you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside, you take a seat in the tiny waiting area while Stan saunters up to the counter. He leans against it with one elbow and tucks his left foot behind his right one, getting real close to the receptionist.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Pines, Stan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The receptionist, a pretty woman probably too young for either of you, stifles a giggle as she checks the books. “Alright Mr. Pines, please take a seat and the doctor will be with you shortly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks toots.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your back stiffens. Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>toots</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What is this, a soda fountain full of high school jocks? The little sideways smile he gives the receptionist (and this time she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> giggle) sends a stab of anger through your chest. Instead of examining </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> (because you already know), you bury your nose in your book. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the doctor calls Stan’s name, he gets up and just stands there for a second. Then he bumps his knee against yours and says “You comin’?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Why in the world would you go back with him? Are you his mother now? His healthcare provider? No, you are neither of those things, and you’re pretty sure Stan is a grown ass man that doesn't need emotional support to get his eyes checked, for God’s sake. “Do you...want me to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks between you and the doctor, who’s standing in the doorway with a clipboard. His lips are pressed together tight and it takes him just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little </span>
  </em>
  <span>too long to answer. When he finally does, his voice is a little tight. “Well you're the one who forced me to come, so you might as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, that's about as close as you’ll get to ‘yes’ with Stan. So, you shove your book in your backpack and follow him into the exam room, because what else are you going to do? When he look at you with those big, earnest eyes, you can't say no. Why? Because you're in it up to your damn elbows despite your every effort to keep your feelings for him purely platonic, and you're just so used to doing what you're told anyway...it's hopeless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dammit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The optometrist is a kind old gentleman with graying hair and a wrinkled, smile-worn face. He conducts the regular round of control tests, then gets Stan in front of the all-important chart of random letters on a descending size scale. He covers the left eye, reads the big F on the top, the M and N underneath, and...barely makes out the B in the middle of the next row, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing else </span>
  </em>
  <span>below that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your jaw drops.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He covers the other eye at the doctor’s direction and has about the same results with the second chart, except he gets two letters of the third row. The optometrist looks…concerned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you’ve been driving?” he asks, pen hovering over his clipboard of notes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yessir.” Stan looks a little pale, and he’s tugging at the collar of his flannel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next step is finding the lenses he needs. This part takes the longest--if the room wasn’t so dark you would take your book back out. He cycles through different lenses on the left eye, then the right eye, then both eyes, then the right one again, then both again, and finally settles on something.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Pines, I’m surprised you’ve gone this far without getting lenses for yourself,” the doctor says, staring at his own notes slightly aghast. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It, uh, it ain’t so bad when I’m reading up close.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm. Yes, well, this should greatly improve your day-to-day life. I think I’d like to see you again in six months or so, once you’ve had a chance to properly adjust to the corrective lenses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, I’ll have to wear them all the time?” Stan has the audacity to sound genuinely surprised and upset.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Except sleeping and bathing,” he says offhandedly. He gives Stan a slip of paper and heads for the door. “Take that to the receptionist outside, she’ll process it and place the order once you’ve picked out your frames. Have a good one, you two.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan stares at the slip of paper in his hand, a little dumbstruck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been driving me around for months. You could have killed us,” you realize.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, I’m a safe driver!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You drive, like, fifteen miles slower at night than during the day--tell me you haven’t noticed that!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tucks his chin to his chest, pretending to continue to study the slip. In the dim lighting, you’re pretty sure he can’t even read it. “I don’t need glasses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan, yes you do.” You heave out a tired sigh. “Come on, my shift starts in thirty minutes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan resolutely gives the receptionist his prescription, and she gestures to a wall of glasses frames on the other side of the waiting room. He stands in front of it for a while, you just behind him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighs heavily and grabs the first frames his hands land on. They’re wire-framed and rounded, and they look a little weird without lenses inside them, but they aren’t a terrible choice. He puts them on his face and turns, hands held out in an </span>
  <em>
    <span>are you happy now?</span>
  </em>
  <span> kind of gesture.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You point to the mirror on the wall. He sighs again, hunches his shoulders, and looks in the mirror.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See? You don’t look so bad,” you say, looking at his reflection with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of a sudden, Stan looks like he’s seen a ghost. All the blood has drained right from his face, and his jaw is set at a tight angle. Without a single word, he takes off the frames, shoves them into your hands, and marches right out of the office.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a second, all you can do is stand there and hold the glasses, watching after him with your mouth gaping open. Then the receptionist clears her throat, and you’re reminded that he hasn’t paid for the appointment yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, give me a second. I’ll go get him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s all the way out in the car! You jog across the parking lot to where he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, white knuckle gripping the wheel. You open the driver’s side door, and he doesn’t even react.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan, what the hell?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I look exactly like my brother. It’s bad enough havin’ to see his face in the mirror every day, I don’t want to wear his glasses too! And now my hair…” His chin drops to his chest, eyes squeezed shut tight. “I don’t wanna be just the shittier version of my brother.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” you snap, “don’t talk about yourself like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just what everyone else thinks! My dad always said he could only tell us apart because of his glasses! He even called us both Stan--we were dressed the same, we had the same haircut, we had the same face. We still fuckin’ do, and I’m sick of it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stops at your sharp interruption. You press your eyes closed, leaning on the open door, and take a few deep breaths. This is too much like a scene you’ve lived a hundred times--shouting over something you can’t fix, something that wasn’t ever your fault, and it used to be followed up with fists. If he doesn't calm down, you’re going to lose your entire shit, and then where will the two of you be?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When you open your eyes, he’s looking up at you with his hand pressed over his mouth. You push his door shut, toss your backpack into the back seat, then walk around to the passenger side. The silence in the car is oppressive. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry.” Your voice cracks on the word. “Just--yelling…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don't apologize, I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You let out a big puff of air. “Finish what you were saying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His words are quiet this time, and without his anger to mask it, his voice just sounds sorrowful and hopeless. “I just...want to be able to exist separate from his shadow, y’know?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan, your dad was stupid.” You’re not looking directly at him, because you’re just too tired to bear the full emotional weight of this situation, but you can see his confusion out of the corner of your eye. “In all the pictures you’ve shown me, I can tell the two of you apart. You’re pretty damn related, sure, but you aren’t identical.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a quiet moment of hesitation. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, really. You aren’t a copy of your brother, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you just happen to share a lot of genetics with him. And your father’s an asshole.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan doesn’t laugh like you expect. He just nods. “I’m starting to think you’re right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You finally turn your head to meet his eyes, but he’s looking down at his lap. He’s let his hands down from the wheel, now tightly gripping his knees instead. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t fix this, but I can help you find some frames that don’t look like his, and I’m a good listener when you aren’t blowing out my eardrums.” You offer him a little smile. “Wherever Stanley is, I’m sure he would want you to be able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods again. “Yeah, okay. Let's go.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warnings today are implied past abuse and a passing mention of surgery. Thanks for your continued support &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stan sets the bucket of assorted markers and pencils and its accompanying printer paper on the table with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, then sits in his regular seat to your right and begins to doodle. You currently have your face resting on your folded arms, cheek squished and eyes half-closed, staring into nothing. For a long while you just listen to the sounds of markers and pencils across the paper under Stan’s careful hand. You know he’s trying to cheer you up, this isn't his first attempt of the day, but it’s doomed to fail. Not for his lack of trying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scribbling ceases. A moment later, Stan’s face appears in your line of sight. “Hey, what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shrug your shoulders, a little bit of an awkward move with the way you’re sitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C’mon, you’ve been mopin’ around all week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothin’,” you mumble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was fine when Stan was leaving you be, but now you just want to push away from the table and go to your room. Honestly, the only thing that got you out of bed in the first place was the promise of evening coffee, but even it has lost its appeal. Your mug went cold a while ago. The sun is already setting outside as winter creeps ever closer, and you feel chilled to the bone despite the fire Stan built in the furnace. Actually, you feel a little bit like the jack-o-lantern on the front porch: hollow and slowly turning to mush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His finger taps your elbow. “Earth to Charlie,” he hums. “You in there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, you slowly lift your head and stretch into a sitting position. There’s a little bit of a headrush from sitting up. “I’m fine. Just tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t ask this time,” Stan says. His expression is carefully neutral. “Can I do anything for ya?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes his square-framed glasses off and fiddles with them. He picked them up from the optometrist just two days ago and he’s been doing this a lot ever since then, staring at them almost emotionlessly. “Okay. Well, let me know if you change your mind.” He puts his glasses back on, pulls the bucket closer, and keeps doodling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once you’re sure the silence isn’t just a ploy to get you to talk, you lean forward and rest your chin on your hand to watch him draw. His page is filled completely by one scene of a swing set in front of the setting sun. How does he make children’s craft supplies into actual art like that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes slide closed, still positioned like you’re watching him draw. You didn't lie--you really are tired, just not in the literal meaning of the word. You’re tired in a way that you can’t adequately express, that deep nagging feeling that sits inside the darkest parts of your soul and haunts you on the bad days. Tomorrow is the baddest of days, and you just want to crawl inside that dark place and hide until it’s all over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That said, you don’t really want to be alone either. Stan’s company is welcome and comforting, but you aren't going to tell him that. He’s got enough problems of his own, the last thing he needs is for you to dump out yours. And besides that, you aren’t fishing for pity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes open and settle on Stan, who has once again set aside his drawing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just--can you tell me if I did something to upset you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your brow settles into a frown. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He twists his fingers together and looks away from your face. “You’ve been actin’...upset. All week. If it’s my fault…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sigh. “You didn’t do anything. I just said I’m tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His shoulders fall a little. “Right. I just wanted to make sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some silence passes, wherein Stan continues to wring his hands and stare at the wood floor. He looks up to find you still looking at him, and for some reason he looks guilty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want me to leave you alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You press your fingers to your temples and chuckle. It sounds weak and forced even to your own ears. “Stop apologizing, you didn’t do anything wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses his lips together in a tight, thin line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got some kinda guts calling </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> nosy, then pulling shit like this. And maybe...maybe he deserves to know. He always gives you answers when you press, and he doesn’t have to do that. The least you can do is return the favor, right? He’s your friend, he’s worried, it would be easy to just tell him what’s on your mind. As a bonus, he’ll stop beating himself up over nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You clear your throat. “Uh, tomorrow makes one year since the divorce was final.” He doesn't say anything, and you don’t want to meet his eyes, so you just plow on forward. “It...feels like it should be longer. I feel like I’ve been alone forever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not alone,” he says quickly. “I mean, not if you don’t want to be.”</span>
</p><p><span>A little bit of warmth fills your chest, pushing that darkness down, but it’s gone as fast as it came on. He took </span><em><span>everything</span></em><span> from you, and it wasn't permanent thank God, but it’s taking so long</span> <span>to heal. You’ve lost years of your life and as much as you want them back, what you really wish you could do is move on and forget. Gravity Falls was supposed to be your do-over but here you are, still living the same fears and nightmares and horrible, awful memories that you had before.</span></p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn't be sad about it,” you murmur. “He’s...a </span>
  <em>
    <span>monster</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But it...it wasn't always bad. I loved him at one point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” He pauses. “It’s okay to be sad. You have to grieve the potential of the relationship, even if it didn’t turn out like you wanted it to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look up to him. Not for the first time, you see understanding in his eyes that can only belong to someone who’s lived this for themselves in one way or another. “I guess so.” You look down at your hands, now folded together on the table. “Do you mind if I keep talking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure.” His voice is almost a croon, it's so gentle and loving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Loving. What a specific choice of words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly...I miss being married. Or, the idea of it, maybe? When I was younger, I always saw myself settling down, having a kid or two. Work, parent, be in love, die old and happy and surrounded by family. At this point I'm gonna be lucky to die with a cat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, don't say that. I—used to think the same thing,” he says haltingly. “Well, it involved a decade or two of sailing around the world and treasure hunting, but I always saw somethin’ to come home to in that picture.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing stopping you, y’know,” you blurt out. “I mean, you’ve got a successful business, your house sure is big enough for a family.” You trail off sort of uncertainly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s stopping </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look up and open your mouth to answer. For a moment, nothing comes out. Then, “Nobody wants damaged goods. I’m--I’m in my thirties, once divorced, full of college debt with no resume to speak of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His careful neutrality falls away as his face crumples. “Charlie, that’s not true.” He says it with so much sincerity that you almost believe him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay, I’m not sure I even want it anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans on the table. His face is still full of sadness and pity for your sake, and you wish you could take back everything you said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stew in the uncomfortable silence. The sun’s completely set now, and the only light on in the kitchen is the one over the sink. Your range of visibility is limited to Stan, the table, and the door leading to the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that,” Stan says. “Your shitbag of a husband, whoever he was, he shouldn’t still be able to make you feel like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I ever lay eyes on this guy, I’m gonna beat the shit out of him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says it with so much conviction that you believe him--maybe that’s why it makes you laugh. “You know what Stan, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll stop talking about myself like that when you do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks confused for a moment as he parses the sentence, then his mouth screws up into a curdled grimace. “Hey, don't go making this about me. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> pity party, I'm just the designated driver.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You snort. “If sobriety is a lack of tragic backstory, I think we’re both way too drunk to drive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flaps a hand at you dismissively. “At least my shit’s all in the past. A year isn't a whole hell of a lot of time, in the grand scheme a’things. You gotta give yourself time to move on, C.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s got a point, you realize. It's been less than two years since you left him, one year since the divorce, and way less than that since the last time you had to lay eyes on him. This isn't really in the past, it's still happening. And it's too soon to try again. Stan basically just said so himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” you agree quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans back, sighing. “What a pair, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess the moral of the story is that life is a cold, empty void and we’re all doomed to die alone with our dreams unfulfilled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan blinks a couple times, then shakes his head. “Well. So long as you aren't bitter about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I reserve the right to be bitter for at least as many years as I was married.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs. “Alright, guess that’s fair. Well, what do you want to do tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Besides pretend that it isn't tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, that ain't the way to go about it. Listen, I used to mope around every time my getting-booted-avesary came around. Then one year, I had the dumbest luck. Picture it,” he says, swooping his arm out in front of him like he’s about to paint his story in the air. He’s slipping into his Mr. Mystery voice. “The date is September fourth, 1974. I'm walking down the street minding my own damn business, when all the sudden I get shot in the stomach! Or at least that's what I thought. Worst pain I ever felt in my life just hit me--</span>
  <em>
    <span>bam</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I drop like a fly on the sidewalk. Good news is, I wake up a few hours later in a hospital. My appendix burst in a real ugly way I guess, and some bozo called an ambulance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait...what’s the moral of this story?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“September fourth is now the day that I had my appendix removed.” He lifts up his shirt and taps at the scar to prove it. “You gotta reclaim that shit. Make it yours, y'know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You purse your lips. “So you’re saying I should go donate a kidney?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No—</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, or I could go get those fillings I need with that dental insurance I don’t have. Sounds like a riot, Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives you a flat look. “Fine, fine, don’t take my sage advice. Mope all day, see if I care!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stick your tongue out at him. “I will, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He taps your elbow again and gives you a broad smile. “But for real, I’ll be here if you change your mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your returned smile is smaller than his, but it’s bigger than it was before he sat down. Stan always seems to be able to do that--worm his way into your brain and milk those hard-to-speak words out of your mouth. You always feel better when he’s done harassing you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he returns to his drawing, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration. You try to picture him with a child beside him, or a baby in his arms, and find it isn't all that difficult. Stan’s all bark and no bite; all charm, bravado, and bluster on the outside, and absolutely mushy on the inside. Loneliness doesn't suit him, neither does this big dark house. He needs a spouse to come home to and harass, children to nurture and coddle, maybe even a cat to scratch behind the ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you first met Stan you could only visualize him in places like the Mystery Shack, or a casino, or maybe a very secluded tropical island. Now you can't see him as anything but a big sap. And the worst thing is, now you know for sure that he won't have you.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: just the reg, vague discussions of abuse. Stan is getting softer and softer....and the storyline is more or less taking place at the same time of year as we're in now O_O</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>For the most part, Stan keeps his word in letting you spend the day however you want. In the morning, you lay in bed and contemplate your mistakes and life itself, take a shower, and later smile when you see that Stan made extra coffee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in the basement most of the day, coming up only once around dinner time. He looks terrible. Deep, dark circles are etched under his eyes like smears of bruises, and the pallor of his skin is less than ideal. His shoulders are hunched and his feet scuffle along the floor as he walks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> sulking is one thing, but Stan sulking is something else altogether—a thing that you don’t like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Stan,” you call out softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns in the kitchen, looking for the person to go with the voice. His eyes find you on the couch and he makes a beeline in to sit beside you with his warmed up plate of leftovers. He doesn’t say anything, just puts half of a piece of pizza in his mouth all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You doing okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “Yeah, I’m fine. How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Bout the same.” You sit in silence a moment while he stuffs pthe other half of the slice in his mouth. Geez, Stan, nobody’s gonna take it from you. “Hey, what if we went and got some movies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks over at you, mouth too full to answer, but his brow is raised in a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I already flipped through the channels, there’s nothing good on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods. “Yeah, okay.” He folds his second piece in half longways and stands up. “You drive, I’ll shove this in my mouth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s decided on the way over that it shall be Monster Movie Night, but when you get into the video store you can’t decide on just one movie. In fact, the two of you can’t even narrow it down to three. In the end, Stan ends up getting all four tapes and says you’ll watch until someone falls asleep. And the first one to fall asleep is making the coffee in the morning. (This isn't much of a threat for multiple reasons. One, you know you can stay awake longer than Stan. Two, you’ll be the one making coffee in the morning anyway because you have to work and Stan doesn't. So unless he’s offering to wake up early specifically to make you coffee—no, you aren't concerned.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you get a few packs of popcorn, Stan manages to get an entire party-size bag of M&amp;Ms in his jacket without the clerk noticing. He clarifies right away that he won’t be sharing any of the M&amp;Ms, but it doesn’t take him long to put a sizable dent in them anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn off all the lights and tuck in for the evening to binge; you stretched out on the couch, Stan tucked into the armchair. He sits alone in the yellow armchair more and more. You miss his thigh pressed against yours, reassuring you that someone has your back. But you understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second movie is halfway over when the phone rings. Stan groans at length, then hits pause on the VCR as he goes to answer it. You decide to take this opportunity for a bathroom break, so you're a step behind him all the way to the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pines residence,” he says flatly. “Oh, hi Ma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You freeze with your hand on the bathroom door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice has dropped in both pitch and volume when he speaks again. “Yeah, it’s keeping me busy.” A pause. “Yeah.” Another pause, then he sounds even more tense. “No Ma, I can't come home this year. I have—</span>
  <em>
    <span>time sensitive</span>
  </em>
  <span> things going on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eavesdropping is wrong, you’re definitely sure of this, but you still don't move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. Maybe next year.” This pause is a very long one. “I—I know. I'm sure he misses you too.” He lets out a long sigh, and you hear a thunk. It isn't the phone hanging up—maybe he’s hit the wall? “Ma I've gotta go, my roommate— Yeah, a research assistant. Okay. Alright, love you too. G’night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You slip into the bathroom. When you come back down the hallway, alibi secured, he’s still standing in front of the phone with his forehead pressed to the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He startles, but when his eyes settle on you he plasters on a fake smile. You hate how good he is at doing that. “Yep! Back to the movie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The movie keeps on playing and you keep on eating popcorn, but you aren't really watching anymore. Your mind is turning over that conversation again and again. Why lie to his mom? Stan always seems so sad when he talks about his folks, his mom especially, so why pass up an opportunity to go see them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, they do live on the other side of the country. Maybe he just can't afford the trip. Or maybe it’s his dad. You're not a huge fan of the guy and you've never even met him, let alone lived with him, so Stan’s feelings on the matter are definitely a little stronger. Or...maybe it's just that shadow of his brother that he’s still trying to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes slide away from the screen over to Stan. The frames of his glasses are about as opposite as they can be from the ones in the back room. They’re thick and blocky and maybe a little too big for his face, but they suit him. Combined with the haircut (which, as you predicted, doesn't ever see any styling products), he does look like a completely different person. He isn't the scruffy, fluffy-haired guy you met at a bus stop months ago; he’s a tall, handsome man. A doctor of science. His broad shoulders and strong jaw stand out even more without the curtain of hair, his arms are thick as tree trunks, and you know that underneath that gut he complains about, he’s strong as an ox. Now that you can see the whole picture, it makes so much sense why he was apprehensive about the glasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the movie’s over, you melt off the couch and onto the floor, flopped on your back like a corpse. Stan steps over you to change the tape. You heave a dramatic sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tape changed, he nudges you with his foot. “You dead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, then steps over you again and gets cozy in his chair. He seems unconcerned by your apparent passing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans forward to give you the dirtiest glare you’ve ever seen. “I do not, you eavesdropping little shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can't suppress the grin that leaps to your face. “Hey! I wasn't eavesdropping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm, then how’d you know I was talking about Thanksgiving?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you never explicitly said the words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, so I might have heard you from the bathroom. Point is, you aren't going anywhere for the holiday, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans back and fishes around in the bag of M&amp;Ms for a second, then one bounces off your forehead. “I'm not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You retrieve the M&amp;M from the carpet and eat it with as much spite as possible. “Well, I'm not either. I talked to my sister last night, she says scum of the earth has already called her to ask if I'll be there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, your ex? That son of a bitch is kicking around there again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, he never stopped. That's why I left town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan pauses for a moment. You crane your neck back to see his face pinched in thought. “I guess I'd never thought of that. I'm sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, pfft, don't be. It's fine.” You fold your hands on your chest. The VHS is finally finished rewinding and it's started to play trailers for movies that came out two years ago. “I used to cook huge meals every year. My husband, he liked to entertain. I guess he was keeping up appearances and all that? I dunno. But it was a huge hassle and so stressful, so I'm just really glad I won't be doing that anymore. My mom’s side of the family all goes to my sister’s, and my dad’s side just kind of silently hate each other. So I'm not going anywhere either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An entire commercial plays between your words and Stan's response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The last time I had thanksgiving with my family, I was sixteen. Ma wants me to come out, but the cost of flying...not to mention how </span>
  <em>
    <span>awkward</span>
  </em>
  <span> it is. I have to pretend I'm someone else around my parents. I've got a brother in California, but I don't really know him all that well. He left home when we were really young and he makes a point not to talk to dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. That sucks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs a chuckle out. Another commercial of silence passes, then, “I could make dinner if you want. I mean, I’m not a chef or anything but Ma taught me some tricks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve eaten Stan’s cooking more than enough to know he’s selling himself short. He might be the only white guy you’ve ever met that knows what an herb is, let alone how to use it. Still, the idea of letting Stan do all the work doesn’t sound great, and the idea of helping him sounds even worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have to do a dinner, y’know. We don’t have to celebrate like everyone else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chews up a mouthful of M&amp;Ms while he thinks it over. “Sure. Fuck Thanksgiving anyway, the settlers committed genocide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Fuck Thanksgiving!” You pump your fist in the air and leave it there for a second. Stan pushes it over with his socked foot and you just sort of let it flop onto the carpet. He’s in a much better mood tonight than he has been in a few weeks, seems like. “What do you want to do then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs. “What, you don’t have any ideas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pfft, no. Do I look like someone that plans ahead?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs. “From the person who rolled into town at dusk with nowhere to stay, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never gonna let you live that one down. “You could spend some time on your project downstairs. I know you don’t get to spend as much time on it as you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in his eyes darken when you mention it, but he keeps his voice casual. “Nah, I...need a break from all that anyway. It’s okay to take a break, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t answer at first, because you didn’t know he was expecting it, but then he raises his eyebrows the way he does when you don’t reply right away. “Oh. Oh, yeah, of course it’s okay to take a break! Especially for a holiday, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” He nods to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your back tells you it’s time to get off the floor. You stretch, popping a few vertebrae in the process, and retreat to the warm and cozy couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what? Let’s just get out of here, go somewhere else for a couple days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You perch your arms on the end of the couch toward Stan. “Mm, and how do you plan to pay for that? Dunno about you, but I’m too broke for vacation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good point.” He thinks about it for a second. “We could go camping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your nose wrinkles. “In </span>
  <em>
    <span>November</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You trying to get me killed, Pines?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I am not going to get you killed. It’s not too cold yet, and I’m a professional camper besides.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nuh-uh. I wanna see your credentials.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s true, I have a doctorate in camping.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan Pines, PhDummy, doctor of getting bitten by mosquitos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no mosquitos out in November,” he says flatly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s because it’s too </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clamps his mouth shut in a thin line, and you give him a shit-eating grin back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “Okay, if you’re too sissy to go camping in Autumn, we’ll just stay here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s not fair. You can’t challenge my honor like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Challenge?” he asks innocently, eyebrows raised. “I did nothing of the sort.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You narrow your eyes at him. “Okay, you’re on. I’ll let you make the arrangements, Camp Doctor Pines.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at you out of the corner of his eye. You know your cheeks are already flushed--you felt it coming on before the words even left your mouth. Stan pulls the quilt on his lap up tighter around him, clears his throat, then nods toward the TV. The title menu is waiting for a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hit play?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm, yeah.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Charlie is the bane of society, and homelessness is discussed</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You're not really sure how, but Stan really does rope you into mid-November camping. He finds a nice campsite in a national park that shares a border with the town, digs his camping gear out of a spare room, and does a careful inventory of what he has and what you’ll need. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The idea of camping in what </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be below-freezing temperatures (though Stan insists it won't be) is the opposite of appealing to you. But Stan takes to the idea with a dedication you haven't seen since Summer, when he was putting his heart and soul into every aspect of his business. And when he starts talking about camping with his brother on the beach, how they set up the tent too close to the water and woke up half-submerged, how his brother studied tide patterns for weeks afterward so that next time they could still be close to the water without waking up wet...his face lights up like ten thousand watts, and all the pain and exhaustion leaves his body for just a moment. Until you saw him like that, you didn't realize just how sad he's been lately. He’s in the basement day and night, always waking up too early to go out logging, always tired, always sore. He’s aged ten years in the last month and you hate it. So yeah, you’ll spend a couple nights freezing your ass off in the middle of the woods for him. It's not a big deal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once you see the amount of camping gear he owns, your worries disappear completely. He has hiking sticks, snowshoes, tents, sleeping bags, foam mats for the ground, wool blankets, fire starter boxes, and some professional-looking rucksacks. And there’s already two of everything! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It all smells vaguely of sweat and campfire, so you’ve decided to run it through the washing machine. Except Stan’s washing machine shrieks like the devil when you wash more than two shirts and a pair of pants at once, so you're taking it to the laundromat in town. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pick up a hefty sleeping bag and roll it out, checking for spiders or other critters who could have been using it as a home. “Property of F,” you read off the tag. “Who’s F?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan shrugs. “Dunno. It’s, uh, secondhand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm. Hope you got a good price on it, it stinks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He chuckles and holds up the trash bag for you to stuff it down inside. “You mind if we stop by the store after the laundromat?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here’s a concept, let’s go to the store while things are in the wash instead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His jaw drops while his brow crashes down against his eyes. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> the sunnovabitch that leaves their clothes in the wash?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You put your hands on your hips. “Well it’s not like you need to babysit them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re the bane of society, Charles. The lowest of the low, the scummiest of the scumbags.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shove his arm and turn back to the camp supplies. He has the decency to giggle. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, we’ll spend an hour watching the laundry and go to the store after, happy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope. I don't know how I'm gonna live with you, knowing this dark secret.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not a dark secret.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, it's dark. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>evil</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As predicted, waiting for the laundry is about as much fun as watching paint dry, maybe even a little less. But the reward is clean, scentless sleeping bags and blankets, so you can't complain much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You expected Stan to go to the supermarket, for some reason. But by the time you’ve selected another tape and loaded it up, you’re on a back road that you've never seen before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The autumn leaves are giving it one last go with the colors, deep reds and yellows lay against the dark pines everywhere you look. Paired with the Electric Light Orchestra playing in the background, it’s peaceful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The car stops in front of a squat, square building surrounded by woods. Over the door in the red letters of a neon sign, it says “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Big Bob’s Bait &amp; Ammo</span>
  </em>
  <span>”. It bothers you </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> more than it should that it’s all alliterative except the last word. Big Bob really had somethin’ going there. It has the facade of a log cabin, but unlike Stan’s, it isn’t real. It looks a little bit like...like someone tried to paint a smile on a warehouse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You follow Stan into the slightly ominous building and find it as odd on the inside as it is on the outside. It has the tacky tile flooring of a department store, but the walls are painted a deep forest green, there are mounted animal heads all over the place, and some...taxidermy? That is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>what a deer is supposed to look like. The whole salesfloor is so densely covered in </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you can't see from one end to the other, giving it a frightening illusion of endlessness. The two walls you can see, to the left and right, are covered in fishing poles and tackle, and guns and crossbows, respectively. All of it together activates some basal fight or flight response inside you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shuffle a little closer to Stan and your hand finds the elbow of his jacket, grasping a little too tightly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks over his shoulder at you, briefly smiles, and presses onward into the store. “I need some cooking stuff and flashlights. This is the only place in town where you can find camping gear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You cast a suspicious look around as he comes to a stop in a dim aisle, and reluctantly release his sleeve. “Yeah, and enough weaponry to arm the town.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grunts. “Don’t give ‘em any ideas. Or guns.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He carefully selects a rack to hold a cast iron pan over the fire. You’re not sure if he’s picky about quality or prices, but he sure is taking his time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you hunt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve fished before,” he says absently, reading the back of a package.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, that's not the same thing. I mean with guns and...deer, and stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes a glance around, then pops the package into his jacket. “Nope. I ‘spose I would if I needed to, like, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Otherwise I just don’t get the attraction.” His nose wrinkles as he finally looks your way. “Guns are messy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s...one hell of a statement. And he just—just turns and walks to the next aisle like he didn't say anything particularly out of the ordinary. “So you've shot a gun before?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't answer for a moment, engrossed in carefully selecting a first aid kit. You've seen the one at the shack, and frankly you're glad to see him getting a new one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I've shot a gun,” he says eventually. “Didn't kill anybody.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I...didn't think you did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks over his shoulder. “Right. Have </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You splutter. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span> I've never killed anybody!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets out one of those loud, deep laughs that used to startle you and now just warm your heart. “I meant have you shot a gun, knucklehead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You bring a hand over your mouth as you laugh. “No, no I haven't done that either. My grandpa had an old rifle over the fireplace, but it was more for scaring rabbits out of grandma’s garden than anything else.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns back to the first aid kits. “I saw plenty of guns in and out of the shop when I was a kid, but I think Pa woulda had my ass on a platter if I ever touched ‘em.” He chuckles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>First aid kit selected (and too big to smuggle out of the store), he moves on again. This time it's several aisles over, and he kneels in front of the tents.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t you have a tent?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up at you, face blank. “I...yeah. I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh--</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, okay. Uh, I can pay for it if you want, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll letcha do that I guess. Err, you wanna pick it since it’s your dough?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No no. You’re the professional here.” You flash him a grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows and brings his hand to his chest. “Yes I am, thank you very much. And my professional training says, uh...this one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds up a bright orange nylon bag with a picture of an equally neon tent on the cover. Under the picture, it lists waterproof, wind-resistant, and lightweight as features. It’s neither the most expensive nor the least expensive one on the shelf. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More and more, you get the feeling that Stan’s BSing this whole “professional” thing </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Well, he BSes everything, but he’s really not backing off of this one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pick up a few other items before you go to the checkout counter, which is the first time you’ve had any indication at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> that there was another human in the building. He’s middle-aged, with a receding hairline that contradicts his very dark hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice to see ya, Stanford.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, just Stan is fine. Uh, been awhile, huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The clerk’s brow furrows a little. “Sure has been. About a year, I reckon. That crossbow been treatin’ ya alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan inhales so quickly and suddenly that he coughs on it. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Crossbow</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes, uh, it sure works.” Stan pushes the items on the counter toward the register. “We’re kinda in a hurry, so if you could just check us out that’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fantastic</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dutifully inputs items on a physical inventory list and punches the total for each item into the register. For the first time, you wish Stan had just stolen all of it. At this pace, you’ll be here ‘til </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> hair starts to recede.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once Stan’s items are paid for and bagged, you step forward and put the tent on the counter. He stares at it for a moment, then looks up to you. “You two going camping?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes sir,” you say, hoping to get this over with quickly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should warn you,”--there goes the hope of getting it over with--”folks don’t go campin’ in Gravity Falls.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan chuckles. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the mosquitos, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The clerk snaps his head around to scowl at Stan. “I’m not makin’ jokes here. There’s things out in those woods nobody needs to see. People used to go missing out here all the time--men and children alike.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You send a sideways glance to Stan. He’s maintained his casual posture, but something in the glance he sends back at you is a little concerned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tch. It’s your own funerals.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s silent all the way to the car, then he lets out a long, pent-up sigh. “I can explain the crossbow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Less messy than a gun?” you ask, a little amused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns toward you, and there isn’t a trace of humor on his face. “I’ve never used it, it’s just--self defense, y’know? The woods...they </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>be dangerous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sober up instantly. “Yeah, okay. Um, are--is it </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go camping, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course.” He pauses and his hands move in his lap like he’s going to reach out for you, but he doesn’t. “Hey, Charlie.” He catches your gaze with eyes dark and intense. “I would never put you in harm’s way, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You smile. “Yeah, I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He deflates, shoulders slumping forward into his usual relaxed posture. “Cool, cool.” He puts cranks up the engine and leaves his hands lingering on the wheel, eyes staring vacantly out the windshield. “Cool.”</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Two tents, two sleeping bags, two wool blankets to separate your bodies from the ground, two rucksacks, one shoebox of kindling, one box of matches, tarp for windbreak, enough food for two days, enough drinking water for two days, flashlights, extra batteries, coffee grounds, extra socks…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The list does not end. Stan managed to get it all in the packs though, so now you’re one hour into the most sweatiest, swearingest hike ever with twenty five pounds of gear on your back. Your shoulders are killing you, these sneakers were a terrible choice, and you’re beginning to feel a </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span> urge to push Stan Pines off the mountain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mountain</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Stan continues to insist that it’s just a very big hill, but the boulders beg to differ! And so do your feet! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You doing alright back there?” Stan’s a few yards up ahead of you, standing on a tree root jutting out of the side of the hill--</span>
  <em>
    <span>mountain</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s a mountain dammit--looking back at you with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pull one hand away from the strap of your bag to give him the most sarcastic thumbs-up that you can manage. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then keep up!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thumbs-up turns into a middle finger, but Stan’s already disappeared over the hill. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time you make it to the designated camp site, Stan’s as tired and fed up as you are. No more smart jokes, no more cutesie jabs. It’s a little bit vindicating. The campsite is nice though, you have to admit it. One side of it crumbles away into a steep hill, overlooking the valley to the north of Gravity falls. In the center, there’s a squat, round cage for a fire pit, and the rest of the clearing is backed up to tall, dark pine trees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You roll up into a sitting position, groaning the whole way. “Come on, we better set up camp before it’s dark.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan moans in response. You slap the toe of his boot, eliciting a second, louder and more irritated moan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, fine. But you can’t sleep in my tent when it’s midnight and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn’t pitched.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You basically have to take everything out of your pack to get to the tent in its neon wrapping. You dump it out in the packed earth, grabbing up the paper instructions inside before it can blow away. You read over it quickly, mostly looking at the diagrams, then tuck the paper into your pack. Can’t have that getting away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stakes are a little harder to drive into the ground than you thought it would be--it’s dry and cold. Once that’s done, all you have to do is attach the tent and run the poles through it! You grab the tent and align the corner with the stake, and...the hole isn’t big enough. You lean across the dirt and grab the paper, squinting once again at black and white diagrams.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, mother</span>
  <em>
    <span>fucker</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan snorts behind you. “Ya alright there, Charles?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>shut your damn mouth, Pines.” You scowl at him as you tug on a stake. It comes out unexpectedly, causing you to fall back on your ass with your eyes wide.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan doubles over laughing. You chuck the stake at him, which bounces off his knee with absolutely no effect. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stand up and brush yourself off, stomp the few steps over to Stan, and throw the paper at his feet. “If you’re such a professional, why don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> do it then!” You don’t wait for a response, just stomp over to the fire pit and sit down on a log.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan picks up the paper and makes pointed eye contact with you as he balls it up and tosses it over his shoulder. Without another word, he gets to work. The stakes are down in record time, but that probably has more to do with his upper body strength than anything, right? But then he whips out the collapsible poles and puts them all together without doubting himself even once. The tent is ready to go in ten minutes or less.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He brings you the ball of paper.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He beams. “You're welcome.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smart ass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan does the same thing with his own tent, setting it up across the way so that the openings face each other with the fire pit in the middle. He sets to work on a fire next, and you just sit and watch. He clearly does not need your help.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to admit, I thought you were bullshitting about the camping professional thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smirks up at you over the kindling he's carefully building up in the pit. “I know. It’s okay, I forgive you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You’re choosing to ignore that. “What’s your secret?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up again, but not happily this time. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About the tents--how do you set them up that fast?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, heh. Well, I’d recommend sleeping in one every night two Summers in a row. Turns out a tent is much nicer than sleeping in a car when it’s approximately the temperature and humidity of the devil’s asshole at night.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, shit. Way to hit a sensitive spot there, Charlie. The man was </span>
  <em>
    <span>homeless</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What can you say now?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan puts the finishing touch on his little wood tower, then lights a match underneath it. In minutes, it’s a crackling campfire. “I don’t mind talkin’ about it y’know,” he says quietly. “Life happens.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It shouldn't,” you blurt out. “The world should have been kinder to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives you a bemused look. “The world never did a damn thing to me, I’m just </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> good at fucking up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stare at him for a moment, unsure of what else you can say to convince him. He’s too smart, too kind, too resourceful to have ever been homeless. To have to go hungry, sleep in a tent every night because. He had no choice! It’s not fair, and if you could get on a plane and fly to New Jersey right now, you’d do it just to punch his stupid father in his stupid face. And then you realize it’s been too long, the silence has become awkward, and the last thing he said was that he’s a screw up. Look who’s talking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You look down at the fire again, red coals burning shadows into your eyes as night falls around you. It’s oddly quiet up here--just the whisper of the breeze and the fire. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You hungry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod forcefully. “You sit, I’ll get the stuff together.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you’re already on your feet and holding a hand out to him like a crossing guard telling him to stay put. “Let me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets out the breath he would have used to speak, and shrugs. “Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t mention it.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm very terrible at ending chapters lol. I write Actual Novels too and let me tell you, that's the hardest thing I have to work on in revisions. More camping shenanigans soon &gt;:3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For once, I don't think there are any TWs in here! This is my favorite chapter since the flea market one, I hope you guys like this as much as I do.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You’ve been on this earth for how many years?” Stan shouts, hands thrown up. “Thirty something years! Thirty years, and you don’t know how to play poker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fake remorse is slipping on your face, settling into a smile instead. “I’ve never needed to play it?” You offer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never needed to.” Stan tosses his deck of cards onto the blanket beside you. “Unbelievable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re laying on a blanket beside the fire, now roaring and toasty, and Stan’s up sitting on a log still. Both of you have donned jackets since the sun set and the temperature dropped sharply. Earlier you would have killed for a hot shower, but now that you’re settled in and refreshed with a meal and some terrible powdered hot cocoa, you’re glad that you let Stan rope you into this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pick up the deck of cards and open it, clumsily shuffling. “I don’t like card games that much,” you say with a shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Moral objection, or intellectual challenge?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You throw a dirty look his way. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Neither</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I’ve just had more important things to do with my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All work and no play made Jack a dull boy,” Stan says, dead seriously. “Come on, you have to know how to play something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright fine. I know how to play Go Fish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go Fi--” he stops halfway through the word to sigh and bury his face in his hands. “Charlie, you’re embarrassing me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The only people I ever play cards with are my sister’s kids, okay!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even most kids know how to play more than one game! Crazy Eights?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Old Maid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Charlie, this is worse than I thought. The second we get home, I’m teaching you every card game I know, including the illegal ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The illegal--!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets down on the blanket beside you and swipes the cards out of your hands. He shuffles in that fancy way you’ve only ever seen people in casinos on TV do, where the cards come back up in his hands at the end. “How many cards do you deal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, who doesn’t know how to play the game now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a house rule!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh huh, sure. Deal seven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quietly doles out cards accordingly, then spreads the cards out in a circle in the middle of the blanket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can make this interesting,” you say, looking over your cards. You pull the electric lantern a little closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan pulls his glasses down from his head and into a more useful position, like where they belong, in front of his eyes. Stubborn man. “What are we gonna do, strip Go Fish?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You snort. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for a multitude of reasons. How about instead of saying go fish when you don’t have the card, you say a fact about yourself. Something the other doesn’t already know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks dubiously at you over his cards. “What is this, the twelve year old’s slumber party version of strip poker?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what Pines, I could just go to bed and leave you here to play solitaire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cracks a smile. “Okay, okay. Then, uhhh, you got any twos?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You suck on your bottom lip for a moment, trying to think up something. “I...have never broken a bone. Have an ace?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts and hands you the card. “I definitely cannot say the same thing. What about a king?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hand him the card. “Have anyyy…sevens?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have seen a UFO. Fours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not believe in aliens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes halfway through picking up his card. “You’re kidding! Do you know how slight the probability is that in an infinite universe, earth is completely alone in hosting sentient life?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Careful, you’re starting to sound like a nerd there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs and tucks his new card into his hand. “My bro used to talk about this for hours at a time. He thinks we’ll have made contact by 2020.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause, trying to absorb that information. “That doesn’t even sound like a real year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh it’s real alright, and it’s comin’. Only time'll tell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright smart guy, got any twos?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sonofabitch,” he mumbles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the night wanes on and the fire dies down, it gets too dark to keep playing comfortably. You lay back on the blanket while Stan tucks the cards back into the box. You suck in a surprised gasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay down there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan, look up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilts his head back and is silent for a moment, then he laughs quietly. “Crazy, isn’t it? You should see it out in the desert—not a soul around ya for miles, no lights. Only you and the coyotes and the cacti.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You drink up the cosmos above you, endless stars and the dust of the Milky Way hemmed in by the looming back pines. You’ve never seen anything like this before. “It’s beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a bit of rustling, then Stan is laying down. Not right beside you, but within arms reach. “You say that a lot. I mean--I don’t mind it,” he rushes to add. “It’s nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shrug, a sort of awkward thing to do while lying down. “A lot of things are beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a little hum of agreement. For a while you watch the stars in silence, only the crackling of the fading embers as a background noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Out of all that up there, you really think we’re alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope not,” you whisper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The magnificence of the sky overhead reminds you how insignificant you are. Not in a bad way, but a comforting way. You and Stan are just ants crawling around in the dirt while the whole universe is happening above you, all the time. If only you’d look up more often, you’d realize how little all of this really matters in the end. For just a fleeting moment, you feel like maybe it’s alright to mess up every now and again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have never been farther east than Idaho,” you say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s quiet for a moment. “I miss the ocean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t watch The Shining all the way through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too scary?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs. It isn’t his usual loud, boisterous guffaw, but a quiet and gentle thing. It somehow feels like he’s trying to be respectful of the nature around him, but then when he speaks his voice is very solemn. “I spent two years in a Colombian prison for a crime I didn’t even commit.” He lets the words hang in the air for a moment. “And I committed a lot of crimes there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn your head to try to see his face, but it’s still turned up at the stars, and the red light of the coals behind him makes it hard to make anything out. You scoot a little closer, just until your arm brushes against his. “Well </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>once rented Alien from Blockbuster and never returned it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, you filthy criminal,” he says thickly, trying so hard to hold back laughter. “I...Oh, I once started a fire in the men’s bathroom in high school and actually managed to frame a teacher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A girl spread a rumor about me in high school that I was cheating on tests, so I put gum in her ponytail in homeroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasps. “Charlie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh uncontrollably, bordering on giggles. “I almost got suspended for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wore Groucho Marx glasses to my Bar Mitzvah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your laughter reaches a loud crescendo and Stan joins in, neither of you respectful to nature anymore. It slowly dies down, leaving a comfortable ache in your sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn't know you were Jewish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meh. I haven’t done the religion bit since I left home. You were raised Catholic, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your head snaps to the side, where you know he is but you still can't see him. “How did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t need to see him now, you can hear the smile in his voice. “You reek of Catholic guilt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don't offer up another fact, and neither does he. Your fingers and nose are cold and aching, but your body is warm and sore from the hike and comfortable here on the blanket. The fire is finally nothing but ash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been a long time since you’ve felt happy to be alive, but right now you feel like everything has aligned to create a supernatural kind of peace, just for you. You want to live in this moment forever, full of wonderment for life and closeness to this mysterious, truly strange man beside you.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't forget that I'm also funkingrunkles on tumblr! I sometimes talk about updates, and I frequently rb the hunkles B)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No TWs today folks. Thanks for reading, and happy thanksgiving to those who celebrate.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Waking up in the tent is so much less pleasant than falling asleep was. It’s so cold that you pull the sleeping bag up over your head, burrowing down into the warmth. Thankfully, it actually did its job and kept you warm through the night, but it isn’t going to help out there. What’s more, you’re not sure Stan’s awake yet. There hasn’t been any noise from outside except the occasional rustle of dry leaves in the trees. You’re trying to work out the logistics of taking the sleeping back with you when the sharp chirp of a zipper cuts through the still morning air. Startled, your head pops out from the sleeping bag only to find Stan’s head stuck through the flap, eyes screwed shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knock knock,” he says. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold, but the smile on his face is absolutely infectious. “There’s coffee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stay right where you are, all cozied up. “Mmm, excellent. I’ll wait right here. And you can open your eyes, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>cold</span>
  </em>
  <span>--I’m the opposite of indecent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does open his eyes, but he uses them to glare at you. “What do I look like, your maid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smile beneath the lip of the sleeping bag. “If you were, you’d be in one of those French maid costumes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pervert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head disappears again before you can counter that commentary, so all you do is laugh. Unsurprisingly, it’s no easier to get up now than it was before. Stan left the tent flap open so if anything, it’s actually going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>harder </span>
  </em>
  <span>now. Thanks Stan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan returns less than a minute after leaving, kettle in one hand and two tin mugs in the other. “Scoot over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You do as told, shuffling your entire cocooned self to the side until he has enough room to sit down comfortably, using your pack as a pillow behind him. “Stan, I didn't mean for you to actually do it. You're a god among men.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles. “Yeah, hold onto that thought, it won’t last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit up, keeping the sleeping bag as snug to your waist as you can, and snatch up a mug as soon as he’s filled it with steaming coffee.  You let out a low, throaty hum after your first sip. “Where’d you even learn how to make coffee like this? I swear it tastes so much better when you make it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tucks his legs into a cross-cross position--he’s already fully dressed from his boots to his hat, despite the early hour. “I worked at a truck stop. This old lady who worked there, she owned the place, and she--” he stops himself mid sentence and shakes his head. “Man, she was an asshole. Jus’ the meanest old crone you can imagine. Anyway, she knew how to brew one mean pot of coffee. She wouldn’t show me how to do it, just did it herself every night since she didn’t trust anyone else. But I watched her do it and practiced until I got it right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did she appreciate it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I never told her. You kiddin’ me? She would have had my ass for breakfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nearly snort coffee right into your nose. Well, at least there’s an actual reason his coffee tastes better. It isn’t just your mind making it up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After some moments of silence, Stan puts his mug down on the uneven floor of the tent and claps his hands together. “Alright, here’s the plan for the day. After eight more rounds of Go Fish--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--we’ll eat breakfast. Then I figure we hike a little, take in the sights. Then there’s two other meals to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Food is very important,” you say with a nod, even though Stan already knows how you feel about food (and you know he shares those sentiments). “I guess if we’re back before it gets dark, I’ll let you teach me some games.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his eyebrows. “You’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>let me</span>
  </em>
  <span>? What am I gonna do, teach you Rummy at gunpoint?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pfft, I dunno, you seem like the type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wound me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. What’s for breakfast? This coffee is making me hungry.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Some instant oatmeal and a couple of granola bars later, you and Stan set out for adventure. According to Stan’s park guide, if you continue along the path you hiked to get to the campsite, you’ll eventually hit a stream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The trails are covered by dry leaves that give off earthy scents as they crunch underfoot. Stan talks, like he always does, about everything and nothing. What he saw on TV last week, that time he and his brother decided to run away from home and only made it a block up the street before changing their minds, a bad joke that Dan told him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're happy just to listen, watching his animated expressions and gestures more than you're watching where you're going. You trip on multiple occasions, but Stan grabs you every time. He doesn't comment until the third time, when he says, “You've got to be the clumsiest person I've ever met.” And then </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> promptly trips, and you nearly cough up a lung laughing. Not with him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>at</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You find the stream at the bottom of a steep decline on either side, like it just cut downward through the earth by ten feet. No more than eight or nine feet wide, it rushes over and around mossy stones noisily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect,” Stan remarks. He kneels beside the stream and unscrews the lid of the one gallon jug he’d been carrying along, mostly empty. He tosses back the last of it, then refills it from the stream. “Here, finish off your water and I'll fill yours too. Can’t drink it ‘til it's boiled though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn't the guide say you can drink it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quirks an eyebrow at you and takes your now-empty canteen. “Ya wanna bet your next twenty four hours of gastrointestinal health on that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You press your lips together and shake your head. Once again, Dr. Camping wins out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan gives your canteen back but doesn't stand right away. He squints up at the sky, sighs, then squints up at you. “It’s about noon. Do you want to head back to camp?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shrug. “I’m not hungry yet, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s keep going then!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You leave the jug on top of a boulder by the stream, your sign of which way to go to get back to camp, and press on downstream. Here and there, Stan will hop over a few rocks and onto a sandy outcropping to crouch by the water and poke around. He scares up a salamander, nothing more than a slippery yellow flash as it darts away, and a few young crayfish. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was bored as he buzzes around. But you know that’s just how he is--and you’re happy to see it. He's been too quiet lately, too gloomy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan stabs at the water with a stick while you stand nearby, taking in the scenery. It must be beautiful in the Summer--you can just see the wild raspberry vines heavy laden with berries and the green grass in the patches of sun that filters through the trees. For now, it’s all bright autumn leaves, blue sky, and dark pines. A wall of rock has steadily risen around the stream as you went on--it's a sheer rockface too high for you to see over now, with a few scraggly trees jutting from ledges here and there. You narrow your eyes at a particularly dark shadow in the rock. It looks out of place somehow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’re you looking at?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You point toward the shadow. “That almost looks like some kind of cave. C’mon, let’s check it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don't wait for his answer, just carefully make your way across the stream. Sure enough, from up close you can tell there’s a crevice in the wall. You brace your hands on either side of it and stick your head through. The darkness engulfs you and doesn't let up, but it sounds like a large, open space inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time you pull your head out and turn, Stan’s caught up. “It is a cave!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets out the guide with a rustle of paper and holds it close to examine closely. You reach over and pull his glasses over his eyes. He tosses you an annoyed glance, which you ignore, and lowers the guide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not on the map. Wonder why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It just means teenagers haven't gone in there to leave beer cans behind yet. Let's check it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He narrows his eyes at the crevice as he folds the map. “Eh, I dunno C. We don't have lights.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our eyes will adjust.” You clasp your hands beneath your chin and bounce on your toes, unable to contain yourself. “Come on, how often do you get the chance to explore a cave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d be surprised,” he deadpans.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bounce again, this time grabbing onto his arm. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pleaaaase</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Stan, just one little adventure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks between you and the opening once more, then lets out a big puff of air as he gives in. “Alright, alright. But be careful, I don't want you fallin’ off any ledges or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your grin shifts from excited to </span>
  <em>
    <span>ecstatic</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You bounce one more time, then turn right back to the cave opening. You have to turn sideways and shuffle a little to get yourself through, but it's not an impossible squeeze. Stan, on the other hand, immediately encounters a problem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grunts, halfway through the opening, then stops and lets his arms hang loose while his torso remains jammed between the rocks. “I'm too fat for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink owlishly, trying to make your eyes adjust faster. All you can see right now is yawning blackness. “You aren't fat, Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My fat ass, which is currently </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, would beg to differ!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You grab his arm and guide him to bend down a little, then move through a wider spot. “Oh look, I fixed it. You're welcome, Mr. Whiny Baby Pants.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can't see it, but I'm sticking my tongue out at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stick your tongue out back at him. Or, wherever you think he is. You still can't see much beyond the thin column of light coming in from the opening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s slow, careful footsteps crunch loudly in the gaping absence of sound inside the rock. “Wonder how far it goes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You put your hand on the damp stone wall, trailing it along as you follow behind him. “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>sounds</span>
  </em>
  <span> deep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean—‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>it sounds deep</span>
  </em>
  <span>’? That’s not a thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure it is. Listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There's a moment of extended silence where the only sound is your steps crunching against the gritty floor. The sound doesn't quite echo, but it isn't absorbed by the walls of the cave either. The sound disappears somewhere ahead of you in the inky obscurity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Stan concedes, his voice a bit softer now, “so it's a thing. You know we can’t go very far in without lights, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe we could come back later, if the sun doesn't set first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan stops suddenly and you almost run right into his broad back. You can't see more than an outline of him--just what's illuminated by the small opening you've left behind, but it's enough to tell that he’s swinging his arm around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The wall drops off. Here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes your hand on the dark and drags it along the rock until it indeed stops abruptly. Your hand plunges into cold darkness and you snatch it back quickly, a wash of fear and excitement crawling over your skin. More carefully, you feel around the opening. It's oval-shaped, both jutting up from the floor and swooping from the ceiling somewhere higher above you. It's big enough that you could step through it, but Stan might have some difficulty. And beyond that little hole, you can't see </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going in there,” Stan says. You didn't realize how close he was until he spoke right into your ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not without lights.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You curl your fingers around the opening in the stone and put your head through. Stan grabs a handful of your jacket, but says nothing. Listening, you can tell the next chamber over is even larger. What you wouldn't give for a light right now!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello,” you call into the hole. Your voice echoes and bounces around, fading slowly into the distance in a way you've only ever heard on TV. You pull back and Stan releases you. “We should come back here some time and explore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grunts. “Yeah, sure. C’mon, this is givin’ me the creeps.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You put your hand against the wall to head back, but before you can take a single step, a sound freezes you in place. The blood drains from your face in a rush and your veins turn to ice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan?” you ask in a very small voice. “Was that you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand grabs your jacket again. It seems like neither of you breathe for a long moment, and then you hear it again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's your own voice, echoed back from the hole, immediately followed by the scrabble of distant movement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Go</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Stan hisses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes you forward and you both shuffle along as fast as you dare in the total darkness. You trip and almost end up on the ground, but somehow Stan keeps you on your feet by his grip on your jacket alone. When you finally make it to the opening in the rock, he all but pushes you through. You fall into the leaves outside, squinting in the sudden brightness of the afternoon, and wait one, two, three horrifying seconds before Stan comes out after you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You scramble to your feet and take a few generous backward steps from the opening, panting hard. When nothing comes out after you, you look to Stan. He does the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let out an awkward, breathless laugh. “That was…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Just...hearing things in the dark.” Stan rests his hands on his hips, breathing nearly as heavily as you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another moment of silence passes. “What that guy at the store said--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, uh, wanna head back to camp?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” He nods, still trying to act casual. “Yeah, mhm, before it gets dark. Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Night falls faster than you expected. You pretend nothing happened while you chat to fill the silence, but you're still on edge and you can tell Stan is too. By the time you're cresting the hill that will lead to camp, the sun is nothing more than a memory in the orange and purple skyline. Not quite dark enough to need flashlights yet, but just enough to have the both of you glancing over your shoulders frequently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I kinda miss TV.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should try this new thing called </span>
  <em>
    <span>reading</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s revolutionary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heh, might be a little easier now that I can see shit. I, uh, never thanked you for that, did I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You glance over. He’s got his hands in his pockets and eyes set on the path ahead. Glasses perched on his face. “You didn't need to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, thanks anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’know, I'm actually enjoying this a lot more than I thought I would,” you admit. “I expected it to be a bunch of coldness and sitting in the dirt, but this is fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bumps against your side with his and grins. “That's ‘cause I'm a professional.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tch, yeah, a professional </span>
  <em>
    <span>butthead</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Natch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You enter the clearing and stop short, smiles falling dead on your faces. The camp is absolutely trashed. The coals of this morning’s fire are spread across the whole area, your tent is completely destroyed, laying on its side in shreds, and the food is scattered in the dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What…” Stan trails off, mouth hanging open as he takes in the scene. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it bears? Are there bears here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “Yeah, probably. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks up your pack from where it lays in the center of the camp, torn nearly in half. Your pack had almost  </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the food in it. You're still stuck in place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuckin’ wildlife,” Stan yells halfheartedly. He kicks a crushed can into the treeline and sighs before burying his face in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You move to be beside Stan, but something catches your eye first. You squint in the twilight at the treeline. Shrouded in dark pine boughs, something is moving. It looks like a long line of shrubbery, but something’s out of place. Was that there last night? No. Now you can make out the shape of two eyes and curved horns in the dark. It's not a bush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That's all the warning either of you get before the thing charges. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know that last cliffhanger was cruel, but this more than makes up for it. TW for implied past abuse, brief blood mentions.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Stan!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead of turning to look at the monster you're trying to warn him about, he lifts his head and looks at you. It moves so much faster than it should be able to at this size--there isn't even time to give him another warning because it's already on top of him. Those horns hit his back at full speed and toss him clear to the other side of the camp. His body audibly lands behind the tent still standing, outside your scope of vision.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thing’s eyes lock on yours as it stops, standing stock-still in the middle of the camp. Stan groans, somewhere to your left, and the beast’s head snaps around to follow the sound. It steps toward him, and instinct kicks in before you can think better of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” you shout sharply. You wave your arms above your head to catch its attention, then shout again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It has the desired effect, with one downside--it looks angry now. It's low to the ground, but absolutely massive--at least as tall as Stan and as big around as a bull. Ivory-white spikes line its spine from crown to tail like a porcupine, and in addition to the horns, it has fucking</span>
  <em>
    <span> tusks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It sways on its feet for a moment, then paws the ground and approaches slowly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You brace yourself to run, in case it tries what it did to Stan, but the moment never comes. Something sails through the air and bounces off the beast’s furry head, once again putting its attention on Stan.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He's back on his feet (</span>
  <em>
    <span>thank god</span>
  </em>
  <span>), but he's leaning heavily to one side. “Hey fuck-face! No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey</span>
  </em>
  <span>--!” He gets louder as it tries to split its attention between you. He steps closer, and that seems to do it. “Don't look over there, you look at me! That's right. Charlie--get the hell out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you insane?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes don't move from the beast, which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>inching toward him now oh god. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I told ya I wasn't gonna let anything hurt you, didn't I? Scram!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You have maybe half a second to process his words, and then the thing lunges again. He tries to sidestep, but it catches him between its horns like a cage and throws him to the ground again. The beast rushes where he lay in the dirt. Stan doesn't make a sound and that's worse than any blood-curdling scream he could have let out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You don't think before you act, because if you did, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>would have </span>
  </em>
  <span>run away. But you're running toward it before you know what you're doing, yanking your canteen strap off your shoulder. The metal comes down on the monster’s head with a dull clang.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The world stops for a second, just you panting at its shoulder and the beast frozen in place. It snorts a white puff of air out, and you instantly try to scramble backward. For the second time today, you trip and land on your ass in the dirt and isn't that just the way things go? Its snout is practically on top of you, hot breath puffing into your face. Your hand closes around a rock--one thrown from the firepit. You bash it into the snout of the creature and scramble back up on your feet. It releases a shrieking roar and trundles toward you, and you run to meet it halfway with a white-knuckle grip on the stone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your strike lands dead-center in the thing’s forehead, right between the horns. It rears back, tossing you by way of its snout to your stomach. It shakes its head and releases a horrible shrieking sound, then makes a hasty retreat into the forest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You cough, flat on your back, and gasp to get air back in your lungs. It didn't hurt you, just knocked the wind out of you. You've seen worse. But Stan--fuck, he's still on the ground. You get up and basically collapse to your knees at his side, legs suddenly turned jelly as adrenaline continues to rush through you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes are half-closed and he isn't moving. You put your open palm on his chest and gasp when you feel it rise with breath. “Thank fuck,” you whisper to yourself. You move your hands to his shoulders and give him a gentle shake. “Stan.” You shake again, harder. Tears are starting to prick at the corners of your eyes. “Stan!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes snap open and he lets out a tight wheeze of air. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” His mumble is almost incoherent and immediately followed by a cough. “Where’d it go? You hurt?” His eyes roll over you, looking for sign of injury, but they're glassy and unfocused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A relieved noise bubbles out of your chest, something between a sob and a laugh. “No I'm fine, I scared it off--are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets out a long groan, eyes rolling shut again. “M’fine.” The next breath he lets out is a snore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stanford,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” you hiss, shaking him. He blinks lazily a few times, unable to keep his eyes open. “Hey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if you have a concussion I can't let you go to sleep.” You pat his cheek gently. Every moment that his eyes don't open turns your blood just a little colder. “Come on, please, get up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He takes your hand and starts to sit up, then winces and stops. His hand clamps over his side, just under his right arm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck, there’s blood on his hand. You pull his hand away from the wound and try to look at it, but it’s buried in the multiple layers of clothes he’s got on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” He smacks your hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me help you!” You try not to let the frustration slip into your words, and utterly fail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quit grabbin’! Gimme a minute, geez.” He puts his hand back on the wound and looks at the blood for himself. His expression doesn’t change, he just presses his hand back over it and lays down. “Jus’...need a minute,” he groans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan, I need you to stay awake. I'm gonna get the first aid kit and a light. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don't</span>
  </em>
  <span> go to sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He mumbles something incoherent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You hesitate at his side, straining your eyes to see into the woods beyond camp. It’s completely dark now, the sun set and the moon hardly risen yet, and you don't even know where to find a flashlight. Fuck. Fuck fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If that thing comes back in the seconds that you're gone, or if he passes out again and doesn't wake up…You just know you'll never forgive yourself if anything happens to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pat his cheek again, eliciting an irritated grunt. “I need you to talk to me while I get the first aid kit. Oh, sing something! That'll keep you up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives you a heavy-lidded glare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sing...uhh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Gambler</span>
  </em>
  <span>! C’mon, loud and proud. Just until I get back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He closes his eyes and you open your mouth to protest--but then he starts singing, low and raspy. “On a warm Summer’s evenin’, train bound for nowhere…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You dart over to the tent and begin feeling around in the dark. If you both make it out of this alive, you are </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> camping again. Eventually you get your hand on a light, and it takes only seconds to find the first aid kit after that. You rush back to him just as he’s reaching the chorus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Charlie, y’need to calm down. I'm fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You put the end of the flashlight in your mouth and flip the metal first aid kit open. Everything’s pristine and brand-new, neatly organized and packaged. Once you've located a few packs of gauze and some antiseptic, you pull the flashlight out of your mouth. “You might have a concussion and you're bleeding, I think I have a right to be worried.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He props himself up on an elbow with a grunt, squinting against the flashlight. “I don't have a concussion. Trust me, I've had ‘em before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You rip a gauze packet open with your teeth and spit out the top. “Well so have I, and I'm not taking any chances.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His face falls. “Don't tell me that shit husband ‘a yours--” he cuts himself off and shuts his mouth with an audible </span>
  <em>
    <span>snap</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blood rushes to your head and whites out the sounds around you. Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>all times</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you can't have a breakdown right now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I--sorry, I shouldn't have...” he reaches up and rubs his forehead. “Maybe yer right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You take a deep breath. “Take your jacket and shirt off, let me see the damage.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He complies with the first part of the directions, shucking his jacket easily. The wound sits right beneath where his right elbow rests against his side, and on his gray long-sleeved shirt the blood is much more evident. Still, you're relieved to see that it isn't much—just a red smear around the wound. No gushing or bleeding out or bones sticking out of chests here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You're going to have to take your shirt off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He holds a fistful of the fabric in his hand. “C’mon Charlie, it's fuckin freezing out here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then walk to the tent,” you challenge. Your eyes lock on his, holding the gaze steady. “Stanford!” You burst out. “Stop being a stubborn child and let me help you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flinches slightly--just slightly--and, finally, takes his shirt off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You suck a breath in through your teeth as you get closer to the wound. It doesn't look too deep, thankfully, but it’s definitely from one of those wicked horns. It looks like it punctured his skin in an upward motion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You're a stupid idiot,” you hiss. You saturate one gauze pad with antiseptic and dab gently at the edge of the wound.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oxymoron,” he gasps out. He's doing a good job of hiding it, but you know this stuff stings like a son of a bitch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An oxymoron would be calling you a </span>
  <em>
    <span>smart</span>
  </em>
  <span> idiot.” You exchange the sodden pad for a clean, dry one. “But you're not, you're an entire idiot. That thing could have killed you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't reply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once you're satisfied that the wound won't keep bleeding or get infected, you use fresh gauze and medical tape to fashion a very large bandage over his ribs. With the wound covered up, you notice now that you can see the crease in his stomach he’s always bemoaning. It's really not that bad, just a little squish. Also, he’s hairy. Like...</span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>hairy. You gulp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Better me than you,” he mumbles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes a moment to figure out what the hell he means, then you snap your head up. “Don't.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you don't get to do that. Playing hero isn't cute, Stan, it just gets you dead. If you fucking died up here, where would that leave me? Are you honestly going to look me in the eye and say that we don't make a good team?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mouth hangs open. His eyes are clearer now, more lucid, but he’s pale in the harsh flashlight beam. “You're right. ‘M sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It's...it's fine. Just use your brain next time, okay? Are you hurt anywhere else?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls his shoulders carefully, then his neck. He winces a bit at that, but shrugs. “Bruised up, but I seen worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stand up and reach a hand downward to help him to his feet, but as soon as his hand brushes yours you pull away and grab his shoulder instead, sidestepping to stand behind him. “Stan--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. It’s fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You brush your fingers over the raised lines of a pattern on his shoulder. It’s hot beneath your cool fingers, the skin tight and red and angry. You can see pale blister scars among the lines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan jerks away instantly and tries to cover it with his hand. “It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just leave it alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That's not nothing! It looks like someone took a branding iron to your shoulder!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns on his knees in the dirt shouts, “Leave it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You recoil, ears ringing. His face stays hardened for a moment, then he turns away again with his head hanging low.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine,” you rasp. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You gather up the trash and the first aid kit and stomp across the camp, tears burning in your eyes.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>You want to stay mad at Stan and give him the cold shoulder until the end of time, but you're trapped in a tiny camp together, there's only one usable tent, and every rustle of movement in the woods sets your teeth on edge. And even beyond all that, there's still a chance he has a concussion. And...you were never very good at holding grudges anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You go into the tent, where he's inside the tent with his sweatpants and coat on, staring daggers into the floor with one hand absently worrying at his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hand stills as he looks up. “Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sit cross-legged and drop the remainders of your sack between you. “Most of the food was in my bag, and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> appears to have had a hearty dinner. All we have are the granola bars in your pack.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods solemnly. “It’ll get us through to the morning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sit in silence while the camp lantern flickers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look Charlie, I'm not apologizing. Like, I hate that I yelled at you and I didn't mean to scare you--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>scare</span>
  </em>
  <span> me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever. Point is, there's some shit that I just don't wanna talk about and you're gonna have to live with it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You cross your arms and cast your gaze downward. “Well I'm not apologizing either.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. We’re in agreement on not sorry, then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another length of awkward silence passes. You break it this time. “I boiled the water from the stream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that thing gonna come back?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I hope not. I mean, there was blood on that rock. And like you said, it already ate all the food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Um...what </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have no idea. I honestly hope we never see it again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me too,” you sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets up and hovers, crouched, by the tent flap. “I'm gonna get a drink, uh, if you want to change.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” You hesitate. “Stan, my tent is wrecked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brow furrows. “I assumed you’d sleep in here. Do you want me...not to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, I just--I guess I wanted to make sure that was okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh. Totally, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You change into the warmest clothes that you brought--thick flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt over a long sleeve shirt, finished off with wool socks--and crawl into your sleeping bag. It's freezing out there and even inside the sleeping bag your fingers and toes feel like ice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan comes back in a while later, silently carrying both canteens. Yours has a dent in it now, and actually, you're pretty proud of that. He gets into his sleeping bag too, and doesn't speak until he asks if he can turn the lantern off a while later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laying in the dark, you try to focus on the sound of Stan’s breathing instead of the wind rustling through the trees outside. Every time you begin to drift off, something else rattles outside and wakes you up. There are so many times you can tell yourself it's just a squirrel before the words lose their meaning, and you're wide awake.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I changed my mind,” Stan whispers in the dark. “I'm sorry. I don't ever want you to make that face at me again. I don't want to be just another guy that yells at you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You roll over to lay on your back. “I'm sorry too. I know I'm pushy. I try not to be.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn't say anything for a long while. Then, “I thought you were asleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You giggle breathlessly, and try to smother it with your hands to no use. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I changed my mind again, I take it all back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sigh contentedly. “You really didn't scare me, I promise.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You lay in the dark for a long time. Your eyes slip shut as Stan’s breathing evens off, and the rustles outside don't bother you quite as much now that you can feel him beside you. He might be a stupid idiot, but he’s a stupid idiot who cares for you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you still awake?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” you whisper back, smiling. “I'm sleeping, shhh.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a long moment he's quiet, then laboriously rolls over. “Charlie,” he grumbles. His voice is thick and sleepy and there's some emotion to it that you can't place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly you're wide awake again. You roll over to face him. Your elbows bump as you tuck yours beneath your pillow, accidentally mirroring him “Hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I--” he falters. “I like having you around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You purse your lips. “Thanks. I like being around.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It's so dark, all you can see is his outline against the nylon side of the tent. You wish you could see his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Charlie?” His voice is barely a whisper, so soft and raspy and quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You wait for him to find his words. Your heart jumps in your chest and you tell it to still, tell your feet to stop wriggling in your sleeping bag because you can't stay still. He has nothing important to say--</span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> have nothing important to say. But his sleeping bag rustles and suddenly his hand is cupped around your cheek and your heart bottoms out completely. His fingers are thick and rough and warm and quicken the pace of your heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not very good at saying what I mean,” he whispers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You put your hand over his. The soft hair on the back of his hand is so much more noticeable now that you know it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. God, you're in trouble. “Why don't you do what you are good at.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He puts his other hand on your shoulder and easily drags you closer together, no sound except your breathing and sleeping bags rasping against the floor of the tent. His arm snakes around your back and holds you against him through two layers of sleeping bag. You breathe into his shirt, full of woodsmoke and sweat and dirt. The pad of his thumb brushes across your cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You nod. Your heart is in your throat but you want to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes, god, yes this is okay, please, it’s all I've wanted for two months. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He scoots closer again and you’re neatly tucked under his arm, the heat of his body mingling with yours. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stan,” you breathe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You tilt your head upward, your nose catching his scruffy chin. His breath hitches and your heart flutters in response. In the dark this all feels like a dream, with your stomach in knots and a certain kind of warm euphoria rushing through your body to cloud up your thoughts. Your mouth is only a hair’s length from his, but you can't bring yourself to close the distance. Your tongue darts out across your lips and another electric thrill runs through your body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He moves closer and your noses brush this time. Finally, his wind chapped lips brush against yours, and you can't help the gasp. The sleeping bag around you is growing uncomfortably warm. Some automatic function inside you takes over and you press your mouth to his, just for a moment that seems to last forever. With his hand still cradling your cheek, he leans into the kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You part almost immediately to breathe sharply in through your mouth. You feel dizzy, even laying down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s hand travels down your arm to find your hand and grasps it tightly in both of his. “Still okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” you whisper right before pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head to catch your lips entirely and warmly, lovingly, presses a million tiny kisses to your mouth, your cheek, your forehead, your knuckles and they're so precious that you can't even conceive of them as real. You must be dreaming, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rests his mouth against your nose, tickling you with his breath. You steal one more kiss against his prickly, stubbled chin, and feel him smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You scoot forward until there's no room between you at all, folding your arms against his chest. He remains how he is, one arm draped over you and the other holding your hand. You fall asleep tucked beneath his chin, listening to the soft thumping of his heartbeat in your ears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the part of the story where I, the author, remind you that Charlie’s experiences are based on my own and that healing is a weird, complicated process. Also this is a slow burn. Proceed.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Your first waking thought is to the painful crick in your neck. The second is the unfamiliar weight on your hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic grips you for only a moment before you remember--you're in a tent with Stan Pines, your back is pressed to his stomach and his hand is resting on your side. It wasn't a dream. Kissing Stan--holding him and being held, the warmth, the feeling of </span>
  <em>
    <span>belonging</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it was real. A thrill runs through you as your mind replays the memories. It really happened and...there's no going back now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The longer you lay staring at the blue nylon of the tent, the more anxiety rises in your throat. It forms a tight knot that you're sure you couldn't swallow around if you tried. What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> were you thinking?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lift your head and very carefully remove Stan’s hand from your body. You move as silent as possible so as not to wake him--partially out of kindness, but more because you need the precious moments alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You creep out of the tent and sit beside the ashes of last night’s fire. Numbly, you prepare kindling and dig up coals to start a new fire. You put Stan’s little coffee pot on the fire and stare out over the valley covered in puffs of early morning fog. That stone of anxiety sits cold at the bottom of your stomach until, all at once, it bursts out in a sob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cover your face with your hands and stifle the sobs into your coat sleeve. Isn't this what you've been wanting so bad? To hold Stan and </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> held and to be in love? You daydreamed about it, you tried to stop yourself, and you got what you wanted anyway. And now you're crouched beside the world’s most pitiful fire that won't even boil a pot of water for coffee and sobbing your heart out. You should want to curl into his side and go back to sleep, but just the thought of it makes your stomach turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the first high pitched wheeze that leaves your throat, you stand and practically sprint for the treeline. You press your back to a large pine, body shaking, and go through the steps again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something you can see. Something you can touch. Something you can smell. Breathe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you got everything you asked for so why can't you fucking breathe--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You crunch dry pine needles in your palms and try to focus on the sharp ends biting into your skin. This was supposed to be easy--you had a plan. You were going to get a job, get your own place, and get on with the rest of your life. You had </span>
  <em>
    <span>goals</span>
  </em>
  <span>. For once in your goddamn life, you were going to live life the way you wanted to, and be alone, and just focus on making yourself heal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The needles smell like a musty old Christmas tree once they're crushed in your hands. You've known for a long time that Stan isn't a part of that plan. Not a functioning one, anyway. He has too many secrets, too many question marks. It's no accident that he calls himself Mister Mystery--his entire past is just one big blank. He’s a scientist, but he's not. He was homeless, but he isn't. He had a brother, but he doesn't. You've seen him lie so many times, the way it just rolls off that silver tongue of his. He's good at it, so what's to say he isn't lying to</span>
  <em>
    <span> you</span>
  </em>
  <span>? And you already know how gullible you are. You were putty in your husband’s hands, what will you be in Stan's?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lay your head back against the tree and stare at your hands with pine needles and red marks scattered across the palms. There's only one thing you can do if you're going to escape this, but it’s the one thing you don't want to do. You have to start over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But for now, just for today, you have to get off this forsaken mountain. You need to get a cup of coffee, eat a granola bar or two, get camp packed up, and get down the mountain. Then you need to see if the store can take you on full time, and start shopping for a new place to stay. Simple, digestible steps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You scrub the pine off on your pants and the tears off on your sleeves, then go back to camp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan comes out of the tent a while later, looking tired and holding a hand over his ribs again. He greets you with a smile, which you try to return in earnest. It feels watered-down at best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” he grumbles blearily. His voice is thick with sleep and his eyes are half-shut, but he's smiling at you all the same. Smiling...god, you don't want to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>tenderly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I had some trouble starting the fire,” you blurt out. You even point at the fire just in case he’s somehow more of an idiot than you are and forgot what flame looks like.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I see that.” He eyeballs you for a moment and eventually opts to tend the fire instead, crouching to add more kindling. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fire crackles to life quickly under Stan's watch, then he sets the pot on to boil again. He sits beside you on the log and you have to stop yourself from inching away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About last night…” he stares hard at the ground. His shoulders are hunched up around his ears. “I hope I didn't mess up,” he says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lower your head too and try not to start tearing up again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you got a past, I do too, an’ I wanna respect that. I'm…” he chuckles. “Well, I'm real good at fucking up, and you're the first real friend I've had--actually, maybe ever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You swipe a tear from your cheek before he can see it. “Stan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way your voice cracks must give you away, because his head snaps up immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches for your hand, but you pull it away without even thinking. Silence hangs between you for a moment as you each stare at your hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks in his head, judging by the way the emotion drains right out of his face. He clears his throat. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm scared,” you force out. It's barely a whisper. “I don't--I don't want to make the same mistakes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reacts like you've slapped him. “That's what I am?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Stan, that's not what I mean--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's already stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. “It's what you said,” he responds coldly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't know what you are!” You burst. “I don't even know what I am! I was supposed to come here and start over and have my own place and be able to rely on myself, and look where that's got me. You're not the only one who fucks things up, I've fucked up ten goddamn years of my life and I don't want to waste any more!” You press your hands to your temples, immediately regretting the word choice. “Not that you're a waste--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds up a hand. “Don't even finish that sentence, I've heard it all before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You press your lips together. Everything inside you is screams </span>
  <em>
    <span>worthless, useless, scared, harmful, angry, tired, tired, tired. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All you can do is put your face in your hands again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let's just get off this fucking mountain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that's the last thing he says for the rest of the day. Stan packs the camp in silence while you try not to break down again, Stan walks twenty feet ahead of you on the trail down, not looking back even once, Stan drives home silently. No tape is picked, no music is played, and it's all you can do to keep yourself from screaming. Every moment that isn't filled by his voice is filled by the one inside your head. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck up, tease, gullible, worthless, unloveable</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ruined.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When you're finally home--no, back at the Shack--it's dark and has been for a while. You silently help him unload the car, and then you both awkwardly stand in the living room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He locks his eyes on you for the first time in twelve hours. They're rimmed red and full of anger. “Goodnight,” he croaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don't sleep.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Step one: achieve reliable pay, enough to pay rent somewhere</p><p>Step two: find a place that you can pay rent to </p><p>Step three: forget Stanford Pines ever existed, because apparently he's already forgotten you</p><p> </p><p>You realize with a start that your birthday is next week, and in the very next moment, you decide you will say nothing about it. </p><p>With your work schedule copied into your pocket-size notebook, you stumble backward into a break room chair. It really takes you a moment to remember how old you are--not that it really matters. Nobody here will know or care; you aren't even that person anymore. You're Charlie now and you could tell them you weren't a day over twenty-five if you wanted to, whether or not they believed it.</p><p>Your birthday used to be <em> the </em> day. It was what you would look forward to for weeks--not when you were a little kid looking forward to a party, but as an adult. It was the one day out of the year that you could rely on. He would always have some kind of gift and whether it was jewelry or something as simple as roses, it always mattered to you. It was significant because everything else was insignificant and in the darkness of all those years you spent trying to make things work, your birthday was the bright spot.</p><p>No, you aren't going to tell anyone. Last year you left the state for a week to avoid seeing <em> him </em> when he inevitably showed up on your sister’s doorstep. This year, it will pass without fanfare or applause or teasing about your age. You will simply <em> be </em>, and that will be enough. </p><p>You tap your hand on the break room table to bust yourself out of the downward-spiral daze you fell into so quickly. The small noise is enough to get you on your feet. You move mechanically to stow your backpack and Stan’s keys in your cubby, then grab your apron and head out into the store.</p><p>You tie the apron just a little tighter than normal while you think and walk. This birthday doesn't have to throw a wrench in your plans at all! Step one is still asking to be made a full time employee today--as long as you have that, everything else will proceed smoothly. Steps two and three will seal your independence, and maybe you can still be friends with Stan once you don't live with him. You try to hold onto that hope but every time you think about it… Every time, you just remember Stan's horrified face when he said <em> that's what I am? </em> and any chance of hope curdles into shame and grief.</p><p>You're working the opening shift today and it will be a slow one (for some reason, Tuesdays always are), so the manager has you stocking shelves and mopping floors for the better part of it. You aren't bothered by this in the least--you aren't feeling up to customer service all of a sudden. What will make this long, boring shift extra difficult is the fact that Stan’s stopped brewing coffee in the morning.</p><p>You never realized how much he was doing it just for your benefit. You thought he was just a daily coffee drinker, but unless he’s suffering from pthis retribution too...maybe he isn't.</p><p>Sharon materializes at your side as you make for the canned foods aisle. She has her hands tucked in the large front pocket of her apron, and her lipstick is a new color today--icy blue with an absolutely unnecessary, yet charming, amount of glitter. Her dangly earrings look like little snow globes. </p><p>“How was your holiday?” she asks, nudging you with her shoulder. </p><p>“Fine. And yours?”</p><p>“Oh ya know, just watched the parade and helped mom cook. What did you and your family do?”</p><p>You kneel down in front of the canned fruit and start pulling product forward and organizing. It gives you a moment to stall on that question. “Actually, I stayed in town. And Stan and I did nothing interesting.”</p><p>Sharon plops down cross-legged on the floor beside you with hopeful eyes. “Oooo, so just you and Stan in that creepy old cabin?”</p><p>“The cabin is not creepy,” you say maybe <em> too </em>assertively.</p><p>“Oh it's creepy alright. Did you snuggle to keep warm?” she croons. She leans forward and prods your leg with a painted fingernail. “Did you finally get that ass?”</p><p>“Sharon!” You snap louder than you mean to and you're sure everyone in the small store hears it. “That's none of your business! Even if something did happen, <em> which it didn't </em>, I wouldn't tell you!”</p><p>She looks stricken for a moment, then her face crumples in on itself and her eyes mist over. Almost immediately, you regret every word from your mouth.</p><p>“I’m--I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell.”</p><p>She sniffles and dabs at her eyes, attempting to be discreet about it and failing. The little smile she flashes you is so insincere it almost <em> hurts </em>.</p><p>Before you fully think it through, you’ve launched yourself at her and wrapped her up in a hug. “I'm sorry.”</p><p>She squeezes you back and sniffles again. “It’s okay.”</p><p>You pull away from the hug and for a long moment, the two of you just sit on the cold tile silently.</p><p>“Having a roommate at thirty isn't all it's cracked up to be,” you say quietly. “I'm moving out of the shack ASAP. I…” <em> I messed everything up, I kissed him and got cold feet, I don’t know what I want, I broke his heart. </em> </p><p>None of that is appropriate to say to her, it’s not even something you really want to say out loud. Not that you don’t want to tell someone, because you so desperately do--you want to talk about how magical those few good moments were and how miserable the last two days have been. You want to drill her for everything she knows about Stan and some scrap of information, anything at all, that might make you <em> trust him </em> . But she's barely even a teenager, and you're <em> not </em> going to involve her. </p><p>You sigh heavily. “It's just time to move on.”</p><p>This time she gives you a very sincere smile. “My Mom’s a realtor ya know, I can ask her if she could find you a deal.”</p><p>You don't know what to say, so you just hug her again. Sometimes you really forget just how innocent and kind humanity can be.</p><hr/><p>It takes every ounce of willpower in your body not to slam the door of the El Diablo as you get out. Your working relationship with Stan is on such thin ice as it is, you know you have to be nice to the car. But you have to slam <em> something </em> , so you enter the shack with a <em> BANG </em> of the screen door behind you and throw your backpack on the ground as hard as possible. Alone in your room, you pound your fist on the wall once, then again. You yell--fruitlessly, pointlessly, at nothing in particular--and then curl up on the bed. </p><p>They can't afford it. The supermarket can't afford to hire you on full time, not in the dead of Winter when tourism is at zero. He offered you a ten cent raise, and because that's just how desperate you are, you took it and you <em> thanked </em>him. For a dime an hour. </p><p><em> Fuck </em>. </p><p>You roll over on your back and stare at the ceiling for a little while. Anger still burns like heartburn in your chest, but you truly have no energy to expel it. So it sits and festers, burning a hole in your esophagus while you wait.</p><p>Floorboards creak distantly in the living room, down the hallway past your door, and up the half-flight of stairs at the end of the hall. The only sign of Stan’s passing. </p><p>You haven't seen him since last night, when you asked if you could still use the car and he nodded. He didn't even look up from the TV, he just <em> nodded </em> . Stan’s shut down completely in the face of your rejection, or whatever that whole <em> thing </em> was. He's stopped making coffee, stopped cooking, hell maybe he's stopped eating altogether, you haven't seen enough of him to know. If you're in the living room, he goes to the basement. If he's in the kitchen, you wait in your room. You've barely said ten words to each other since last weekend and you don't know how to <em> fix it.  </em></p><p>Since Stan’s safely tucked away upstairs, you pull yourself off the bed and up to get something to eat. Canned soup seems to be the only viable and appealing option, so tepid canned soup it is. You eat it alone at the table. </p><p>You pause in front of the sink as you move to put away the bowl. Your little glass zoo still sits there on the sill, staring blankly into the middle distance. They don’t glow in this early nighttime like they did in the Summer sun--they look as sad and dark as you feel. You pick one up and rub it between your fingers. It’s freezing against your skin. You wrap both your hands around the figurine and hold it to your chest, closing your eyes and willing it to warm.</p><p>Images of that day flash behind your eyelids--Stan’s wild hair, his thick arms exposed and freckled in the sun, the smell of greasy faire food in the air. When he dropped the animals in your hand for the first time that day, they were warm from the sun and the heat of his palm. Now they’re all sitting in the dark, cold kitchen, freezing away.</p><p>Gripped by a sudden compulsion, you gather the animals up in your hands and puff warm air into your hands. As if warming them will somehow undo this cold ache in your chest, you warm them up one hot breath at a time. You steal them away to your room, still wrapped in your hands. One by one, you line them up on top of the secondhand dresser you have in there, near the door so maybe they won’t be as cold. </p><p>If Stan notices their absence in the days following, he doesn’t say anything. But your heart twists in your chest morning and night every time you see them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some housekeeping: you'll notice I've changed the rating of the story to mature. It will stay that way for now but I'm sure I'll bump it up to explicit before long 😬 I've also added an estimate of how many chapters I'll have total. This is also bound to change </p><p>TRIGGER WARNINGS: all of them. Abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, brief suicidal ideation, just....all of it.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You wake up on the day of your birthday literally shivering under the covers. The forecast said it would be cold, it may even snow, but this is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculous</span>
  </em>
  <span>. All you can really do is hope that Stan will get the furnace going before he leaves for work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pull the blankets over your head and snuggle into the mattress as deeply as you can. You drift off in the cozy warmth and then...then your alarm goes off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You slap at it, groaning loudly. Happy birthday, it’s twenty two degrees outside, get the fuck outta bed and get dressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Halfway through getting dressed, the smell of coffee hits your nose. It’s been so long that at first, you think you’re making it up, so you open the bedroom door.  The smell nearly bowls you over. Stan made coffee. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan made coffee!</span>
  </em>
  <span> You hurriedly pull on your socks and boots and practically run into the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile fades from your face when you see the empty pot on the counter. Stan’s made coffee for...himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door opens and closes and you panic too thoroughly to decide whether you’re going to bolt or not, so when Stan stomps into the room in full winter gear, you’re just standing with wide eyes and your back to the counter. Smooth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses at length, hands lingering at the rim of his black hat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” you choke out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finally takes the hat off and nods like your voice is what unfroze him. “Morning. Uh, snow’s outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You glance toward the kitchen window and see a few inches of the stuff piled up on the ledge. The glass is glazed over with frost. “Better than snow inside,” you quip. The response is automatic and less than tactful, probably, but Stan chuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks a giant green thermos up from the table and holds it out to you. “I made coffee, figured you might...want something to keep you warm.” He clears his throat. “Dan’s comin’t plow the drive and pick me up. You think you’ll be okay in the Diablo with the weather?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod dumbly, still staring down at the thermos in your hands. It’s full and heavy and even though it’s insulated, the heat of the coffee seeps through to your fingertips. Stan made coffee...for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your head snaps up and it takes you a moment to remember the question. You blink. “The snow, yes--I’ll be fine to drive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods once. You can’t read his expression, but you so badly wish that you could. His jaw isn’t set at an angle, there isn’t a crease between his brows, and he isn’t frowning. But he also isn’t smiling, and the dark bags under his eyes look worse than normal. How much time has he spent in the basement instead of sleeping? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll have to dig out the Diablo before Dan gets here,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it’s a shit ton of snow. I’m not gonna make you do it alone.” He pulls his hat back on and produces a pair of gloves from his thick, hole-riddled coat. He starts toward the door again, then hesitates and turns fully back to face you. “Charlie, I...I hope ya know I’m not mad. Sure, I’m frustrated. Confused? Yeah, confused as hell, but…” he wrings the gloves in his hands and sighs. “I meant it when I said you’re my friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This statement should make you breathe a sigh of relief. You should want to sag your shoulders and laugh off the awkwardness and say </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank god, I thought you were never going to talk to me again and I’m terrified of losing you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it just tightens that piano wire cutting ever deeper into your heart. Because dammit, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’s still calling you a friend after all this, and making you coffee and making sure you get to work safely and helping you shovel snow at shit-ass-o’clock in the morning, and you’re planning on moving out as soon as possible. And you haven’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>told him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up when you don’t respond, eyes wide and earnest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” you choke out. “I’m--I’m not mad either. Though...I don’t know if you were worried about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles. It's small and nothing like that boisterous laugh you first came to know him by, but it’s for you, from him. That makes it perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without saying another word, he snatches a second thermos from the table and carries on outside. You have to get your coat and gloves from the closet, but you gear up as fast as you can to get out and help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause on the porch, breathless. The first snow of the season is nothing to scoff at. It’s got to be eight or so inches accumulated on the ground underneath the gray sky, and the thick cloud cover is steadily spitting out more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan has his coffee on top of the Diablo and he's already got one side of it unburied. His black hat is crusted with snowflakes in just the few minutes he’s been out here. You crunch your way through the snow to stand beside the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have another shovel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns wordlessly and pulls a big brush off the snow piled on top of the car. “Sweep off snow, not my coffee.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yessir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You walk around to the other side and start shoving snow off the hood. The brush isn't really helpful until you’ve gotten the first layer off, so you alternate between pushing slabs of snow out of the way and brushing off the rest. This works well enough until you get to the roof of the car and shove the first chunk away from you, and you hear it hit something that is...definitely not the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s head pops up on the other side of the car, covered in snow. His hood is full of it, too, and the chunk of hair that was sticking out of the hat is now plastered to his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You clap your gloved hands over your mouth as his dead-eyed glare turns on you. “Stan, I am so sorry, I had no idea you were over there still--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops you with a hand held up. He brushes the snow from his face and tries to jostle it out of his hood. Ultimately he just makes it hit the back of his neck and he yelps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, wait, I’ll come help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You half-turn to trudge around to the other side of the car. As soon as you’ve rounded the rear of it, a snowball hits you square in the chest. With a slack jaw, you look between your snow-covered jacket and Stan’s smug face. He holds your gaze for a long moment, eyes narrowed in a challenge. You can just hear the old Western music playing as you each wiggle your fingers over your holsters. Who has the quickest draw? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You both dive toward the ground at the same time to gather up ammunition. You screech as the next snowball explodes against your retreating back and turn to throw another. He dodges it and you think sure, that’s fair since you got in the first shot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn and duck at the edge of the porch and scoop up more snow. The packed lump cuts through the air and hits its mark with a soft, but extremely satisfying, </span>
  <b>
    <em>plap</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The yard quickly becomes pitted and marked by signs of war. Deep footprints, Stan’s assprint where he fell, snowballs that missed their mark. Stan lobs snowball after snowball unrelentingly. Most of them don't hit you. You throw fewer of them, but they hit their target dead on if you do say so yourself. Laughter rings out from the both of you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Instead of hitting you in the chest, Stan’s last throw goes a little high and explodes right over your face. The cold shocks you back on your ass while you gape, eyes closed against the quickly melting stuff on your face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan snorts a laugh out first, then shouts a sorry and he's helping you up stand in the next moment. You splutter snow out of your mouth and he keeps giggling even as he gently sloughs slush off your face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You open your eyes just as he pulls his gloves off and presses his bare palms to your cheeks. “Your face is </span>
  <em>
    <span>freezing</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he mutters. How is he so warm out here in this cold? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You just stare at him. He isn’t looking at you--not really. His eyes are fixed on your red nose and the tiny abrasions on your cheeks that you can’t even feel in the numbing cold, but he’s muttering about them and he seems genuinely sorry that he caused them. “But your face,” he says, “oh man it was so funny.” But, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ahem</span>
  </em>
  <span>, also very terrible, and he’s very sorry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops talking suddenly when his eyes meet yours. Not for the first time, you think how unfair it is that an adult man could have such big, beautiful brown eyes. Long lashes, too, and the softest gaze you've ever received. Just with his eyes he can say so much, but you can't read it. God, if you could just look into his eyes like a pair of crystal balls, maybe you could know what he was thinking. Maybe then you’d know what your next move should be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The engine of Dan’s pickup revs somewhere down the road, and you both jump apart by a foot. The thing comes rumbling into view a moment later, pushing all the snow out of its way in the process. Dan rolls down a window just enough to stick his hand out and wave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be right there!” Stan shouts. He pulls his gloves back on. “Uh, you drive safe, okay? I’ll be back around five.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Stay--stay warm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flashes you a fragment of a smile and goes to grab his coffee. He pats the trunk of the Diablo as he passes and loudly tells her to take good care of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel like crying as he climbs up into Dan’s truck and rumbles away from you.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The supermarket is absolutely dead. With snow still falling in heaps outside and the sky only growing darker as the day goes on, nobody seems too keen on shopping apparently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You manage to lose four games of paper football to Sharon before the manager says one of you should go home. Sharon immediately tells you that since you live on those back roads and it’s still snowing, you should go first. You have a sneaking suspicion that Sharon’s kindness is masking her want for a little extra holiday spending money, but you aren’t really going to complain. It’s not like that extra dime an hour is going to get you out of Stan’s place any faster, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s your birthday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is a shame though, you might have eventually won a game of paper football. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gravity Falls is beautiful in Winter, you wouldn’t even bother trying to deny it. The little town square, the looming pines, it all looks so much more magical with a foot or two of snow on it. Plus, they’re pretty good at keeping the roads clear. Still, you drive slowly in the rumbly old Diablo. She can handle the snow just fine, but it’s been a while since you drove in the stuff and you’re a little nervous. If you bang up this car, you’re pretty sure Stan will kill you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you pull into the clearing that contains the Mystery Shack, a smile lights up your face. Stan’s sitting on the porch, all bundled up. He must be smoking if he’s sitting out in this weather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan! Did they send you home early too? I guess we shoveled all that snow for nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you get closer to the porch, the bulky figure stands up. You stop in your tracks, mind yelling </span>
  <em>
    <span>danger</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Something isn't right--those aren't Stan’s broad shoulders, and that hat--you’ve never seen that hat. Or...well, you have seen it before, just not on Stan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan. That the name of the new guy you’re fucking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. No no no no no. How does he even know you’re here! You’re supposed to be safe here! You take a few quick steps backward. If you hurry, you can make it back to the car. If you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurry</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Keep walking to the car, keep your backward steps even and high above the snow that will trip you. You know you need to turn around and </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but you can’t make yourself turn your back to him, you just can’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your sister gave me this, thought it’d be nice to deliver it personally.” He holds out an envelope with the Gopher Road address scribbled across the front and a birthday cake stamp in the corner. “Happy birthday, by the way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps the card held out to you and for every step you take backward, he takes two forward. The distance is closing too quickly between you that you could almost reach out and take the envelope. You need to snap out of it, you need to run, you need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span>!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your back hits the car and you let out an involuntary shout of pure terror. This has got to be a bad dream, this can’t really be happening. He can't really be here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs your arms tightly. The envelope flutters to the ground. “Baby, you gotta come home.” There are tears in his bloodshot eyes. “Please, I’m nothing without you. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, look how much weight I've lost! I just need you. Please, please come home.” He shakes you with every instance of the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and not gently either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears are welling up in your eyes, not tears of pity or any kind of desire to go with him, they’re just fear. Being touched by him makes you feel sick--all of this makes you feel sick and dizzy like you're watching it from outside yourself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This guy doesn’t even have to know! I can get you packed up quick, I’ll forgive you for everything. We can pretend like nothing ever happened, Diane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your head shaking and body trembling stops at the utterance of that name. That name you haven’t heard in months, that name that used to be yours. But...you aren’t that anymore. Your name is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Charlie,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and you aren’t going to die today.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You get your hand in the car door and open it as fast as you can, falling backward into the driver’s seat. He puts his hand in the door to keep you from closing it, effectively getting his own hand slammed in the door. He pulls away with a curse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear and adrenaline courses through you so fast that everything feels slowed down--you watch yourself put the keys in the ignition in slow motion. Then you slam on the accelerator, and the world catches up with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You plow forward right into the unshoveled snow near the porch, jam your elbow down on the tab to lock the doors, then kick the Diablo in reverse. You can see his car now--sleek and dark under a heavy pine bough. You almost hit him on accident as you execute the world’s worst three-point-turn. He’s screaming obscenities and shaking his fists, but you’re the one in the car. You peel down the road as fast as you dare in this storm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hands are shaking on the wheel. In fact, underneath your winter layers, all of you is sweating and trembling. “Keep it together Charlie. You have to keep it together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Police station. You know how to get to the police station, it’s just around the corner from the supermarket. You’ll have to drive through the whole town and maybe you’ll see someone or something that can help sooner than the police station, but for now, that’s your destination. Beyond Stan, that’s the only thing you can think of. But you have no idea where Stan is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't take him long to catch up with you. His headlights reflect off the rear view mirror and in the next second, he lays on the horn. You grit your teeth and accelerate more. The snow is audibly hitting the windshield as you speed through it. You can’t see far enough ahead to go any faster, you just know there are too many bends in this road and you’re bound to hit something. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> could do this all day though, he’s better at driving in the snow because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> sold your car to upgrade his own. He said it’d be a “family car” and you could use it too, but it didn’t take long for him to start hiding the keys. Filthy, slimy motherfucker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You make it to the main road safely and speed up a little more. He keeps flashing his lights and laying on the horn as you go down the road. No other cars pass you, and the yellow line dividing the center is quickly disappearing under the snow. Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look away from the road for one second to look up ahead--you can just faintly see the lights of Greasy’s Diner. Nobody’ll be there though, no point in stopping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lurch forward with a shout as the entire car is jostled. Your eyes go back to the road and you turn the wheel erratically to keep yourself from sliding right into a ditch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hit the car! He tapped the back of the Diablo, and he’s getting ready to do it again. At this rate you won’t even make it to the police station alive, they’ll just find the Diablo wrapped around a fucking tree tomorrow morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he speeds up to hit you again, you turn the wheel sharply and skid into the small dirt lot of Greasy’s. The mix of dirt and snow and rock salt do their job well to slow you down just in time to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> hit the building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You have just enough sense left to put the car in park and rip the keys out of the ignition as you get out of the car. You run up the stairs and try the door, predictably finding it locked. That doesn’t stop you from pounding on the glass and screaming, though. You know Susan spends a lot of time here even when the diner is closed--there’s a chance, however small, that she’s in there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even over your pounding, you hear his tires kick up snow and grit as he reverses down the road and swings into the parking lot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Susan!” You catch sight of her brown bouffant through the frosted glass. She looks up, smiles, and waves. You rattle the door. “Susan you have to let me in!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re closed sweetie!” she shouts back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His car door opens. You make an executive decision. You've seen this on TV a dozen times and it always works, you just hope it works as well in real life. You elbow the glass as hard as you can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blinding pain cuts up your arm and into your shoulder, but the glass shatters spectacularly. Susan screams on the inside. He calls out to you with the wrong name. You put your arm through the hole and unlock the bolt. When you slam the door behind you, even more glass falls out of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t know how to get behind the counter so you just vault over it, running on pure panic. You crouch down underneath it, wedging yourself between two shelves of coffee mugs. “Call the police,” you tell Susan. Your voice is trembling. “Call the police right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For all her chatting in the past, she seems completely speechless now. She doesn’t even say anything in response, just picks up the rotary phone and dials the number.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, 911, I got Charlie in here scared outta-- Oh, you know Charlie. The one staying with Stan? Yeah, that Charlie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God bless her heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s coming up the steps now, you can hear him stomping. In two seconds he’s going to be in here and you aren't going to be able to hide like this for long. Maybe if you can get out the back door, you could get around to the Diablo and--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All you see is his arm, grabbing the phone out of Susan’s hand. He gently hangs it on the receiver, then unplugs it from the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! You get out of here, stranger, or I’m calling the police!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a length of silence wherein Susan realizes she probably won't be calling the police with that disconnected phone. It ends when she glances toward you. You just wave at her to go--no use in her getting hurt. She doesn't hesitate, just turns and disappears into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe the police will pull through, they’ll arrive any minute and you won’t have to deal with this alone anymore. Or maybe a blood vessel in your brain will explode and you’ll simply be freed from this mortal coil. Or, maybe like so many other people who leave an abusive husband, you’ll simply be shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You go forward on your hands and knees to try to follow Susan into the kitchen, but he vaults over the counter just as easily as you did and puts his foot down on your hand. You wince, but you won't cry out, you won’t give him the satisfaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Diane, will you please stop running away from this? We just need to sit down and talk this through--you never gave me a chance to talk this through face to face.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because I thought you’d kill me,” you hiss through clenched teeth. The pressure on your hand isn’t letting up, and you feel familiar panic rising in your chest. Sticky, inescapable panic. You’re breathing too fast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Who told you that? Your busybody sister?” He lifts his boot, and you nearly collapse on with relief. He kneels down in front of you and takes the hand between his, massaging out the red marks. It just hurts more. “I know I lose my temper--I try not to. I’m sorry.” He takes your chin in his hand and forces you to look up at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don't feel sorry for him, you're not capable of that anymore, but you can't even see clearly through the hot tears now. It’s all you can do to gather up enough air to speak with. “I won’t go with you. I don't love you, I don't even want to see you, I got a </span>
  <em>
    <span>restraining order </span>
  </em>
  <span>against you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to give us a chance,” he whispers. “I vowed to be by your side til death do us part. I don't wanna go back on that Diane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head. “That’s not my name,” you rasp out, “and I’m not your wife. If you want me to go anywhere with you, you’ll have to kill me first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes harden, brow furrowing down. In the blink of an eye he goes from sorrow to rage, and you don’t even see his hand move before it strikes you. He backhands you and the cold wedding band on his finger stings the most. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stars explode across your vision and without any preparation for the strike, you lose your balance and fall backward into the underside of the counter. Mugs rain down and shatter all around you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand!” He screams. He’s standing now, still between you and the door. “I’ve done everything for you! I sacrificed everything! I gave you a home, a life, everything you ever needed! All I wanted in return was a little respect, huh? All I wanted was dinner on the table and a fuck at the end of a long day at work! And it’s just fine for ten years until it’s not? I own you!” He roars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest is a blur. He hauls you up to your feet and you struggle, but your breathing is ragged and the world is swirling in and out of focus. The next thing you’re really sure of, you’re in a snowbank and another car is pulling into the lot.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>WARNING: THIS CHAPTER INCLUDES GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENT ABUSE, DESCRIPTION OF SEXUAL AND EMOTIONAL ABUSE, AND MORE. PLEASE PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He stops near the steps of Greasy’s when the headlights of the other car flash across the both of you. It's almost completely dark outside now, and the snow’s still falling lazily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as he isn't physically holding you upright, you fall back into the snow. The sound of a wheeze hits your ears and it takes too long for you to realize it’s your own. Your elbow aches and your head is pounding and your hand is throbbing and you can't breathe. Are you hurt or are you having another panic attack? You don't even know for sure, you just can't </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Charlie?” A door slams shut and heavy footfalls come toward you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At first you can't make out the figure, but as soon as the headlights behind him shut off you can tell it's Stan. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You try to take in a breath to respond, but no sound comes out. All you manage is to lift your hand toward him. And then </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>moves between you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who the fuck are you?” Stan asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you've got us mixed up with someone else there, bud. I’m Frank, this is my wife Diane.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan doesn't even hesitate. He grabs the smaller man by the collar of his coat and shakes him. “So you're the son of a bitch who won't leave them alone,” he growls. “I'm Stan, that’s Charlie, and I’m going to give you one chance to walk away from this.” Stan all but throws him toward his car, effectively positioning himself between you and the threat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have no right!” He blusters uselessly for a moment, spitting and sputtering. “I'm taking her home!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan looks over his shoulder at you. His expression is openly distressed, lips parted and brow drawn. “Do you want to go?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>No. Fuck no, hell no.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You shake your head because you still can’t get a sound out of your throat. Stan’s expression changes. You couldn’t describe it if you tried, but it changes. He looks more...sure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns back. “You take one step toward Charlie, and I beat the shit out of you. Last warning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He</span>
  </em>
  <span> throws his head back, laughing. He’s not short by any means, or lacking in muscle, but Stan must outweigh him by nearly a hundred pounds. You want to be more sure that Stan would win this fight, but--but he never played fair, did he?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he takes a single step forward, Stan charges at him. Too late, you see the flash of a knife. He swipes at Stan as he approaches and he grunts, but doesn’t stop. A strangled cry escapes you as they go tumbling in the snow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a painful moment it’s just silent grappling and you can’t tell who’s going to come out on top or where the knife went. Dan gets out of the truck and comes to kneel beside you. He starts asking you questions and you don’t listen--you don’t care. All that matters right now is that Stan gets back up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get back up</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only when Stan’s on his feet again do you inhale slowly. When </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> gets up, swaying slightly, there’s a dark line of blood running from his temple to his chin. The knife is nowhere to be seen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he growls. “But I am not leaving without my wife.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan takes a stance--fists up, head down, elbows tucked. “Funny. Woulda sworn you were divorced.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time it isn’t Stan who charges, and he doesn’t quite manage to evade the hit. He takes a solid fist to the jaw, but it’s going to take a lot more than that to put him down. His next move is to put his hand around your ex-husband’s throat and slam him into the snow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan kneels and digs around in the snow. When his hands appear again, he’s holding the knife. Dan tenses. Something inside you hopes Stan kills him. He might, honestly, because it's barely been two minutes and the motherfucker is bleeding on the ground. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop!” He puts his hands over his face protectively while Stan looms over him. “I’ll leave, man, just stop!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dan lunges like a loosed spring. He’s young and his limbs are too long for his body, but he’s also </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Before Stan can decide what he’s going to do with the knife, Dan’s pried it out of his hand. “He’s had enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan looks down at the cowering bastard. “If I see you again, I’ll break your neck. That’s a fucking promise, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frank.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Get out of here before I change my mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gets up and hesitates. His eyes drag over you, then Stan again. It’s only a second before his tires are squealing as he hits the main road again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The parking lot suddenly seems very small and quiet underneath all the snow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dan says something you can't quite make out, then Stan’s eyes turn to you and he’s up and running in the next instant. He runs right past the Diablo with its wide-open door and dented bumper and plants himself in the snow beside you. He's breathing heavy, blood on his knuckles. His hands hesitate near your shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is it alright to touch?” he asks quietly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your response comes in the form of grabbing his arm and turning it this way and that, trying to find where he was cut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he didn't hurt me. It only got my jacket.” He grabs the hands </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> stepped on. It's bruising quickly. “Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You take a shaky breath in. The ebbing adrenaline and panic is leaving you trembling all over and you can breathe reliably again, thank God, but you're so close to just breaking apart in tears. So you look up at Stan with a busted lip and worry drawn all over his face, and all you can get out is, “He--he hit your </span>
  <em>
    <span>car</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? C, I don't care about the car.” He takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a tight embrace. He holds your head to his shoulder with one big hand and rocks back and forth slightly. “I don't care about the car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You release one shuddering sob, then the floodgates open. The hurt and fear and exhaustion spills out in tears on Stan’s shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What can I do? Do-do you need to go to the hospital?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I just--I wanna go </span>
  <em>
    <span>home.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can do that. Hold on.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You barely have time to process the warning before Stan’s gathered you up and suddenly you’re weightless and in motion. Once again, he passes the Diablo and climbs into the cab of the truck instead. There isn’t legally room for three people inside it, so you end up basically sitting in Stan’s lap. You don’t even have the decency to be embarrassed about it, you just bury your face in his coat and try to stifle the crying.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>Dan offers to drive Stan back to the diner so he can get his car, but Stan declines with something along the lines of “</span>
  <em>
    <span>are you insane</span>
  </em>
  <span>”. He gives Dan the keys instead, telling him to stop by Greasy’s and lock the doors before he goes home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You don't let him carry you into the house. The snow is shin-deep now, but you're determined to plow through it by yourself, shaking knees be damned. That doesn't stop him from being one step behind you, or standing in the doorway as you shed your jacket and hanging it in the closet, or walking you to the couch. The couch is really as far as you can make it before the urge to lie down becomes too strong to ignore any longer. You press yourself into the corner of the sofa and pull your knees up to your chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan lays a blanket over you, then holds up a hand. “Don't--don't go anywhere, okay? I've got that first aid kit here somewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He returns with it only a moment later. He puts it on the couch and kneels in front of it, shuffling through it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s that for?” you mumble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up at you from the corner of his eye. “Your cheek.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You touch your fingers to the place you know he hit you, and yeah, sure enough, there’s a little bit of blood there. His ring must have broken skin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan uses a wipe to clean it, then puts a little white butterfly bandage over it. You sit silently and keep your gaze firmly on his socked feet. The closeness, it’s just...it’s too much. You can’t handle it on top of everything else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did he hurt you anywhere else?” His voice is so gentle--more so than you’ve ever heard it before, almost like he’s afraid to ask. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shake your head numbly. “I--I put my elbow through the window.” A tearful laugh bubbles out of you. “I broke into Greasy’s, basically.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s hand closes around your knee, big and warm and gentle. “You did the right thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did Susan call you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Dan was just driving me home. I saw the Diablo and he pulled the most wicked u-turn I’ve ever seen. Charlie, I...</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I'm glad I saw you. How the hell did he find you here? What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You just gape like a fish for a moment, then snap it shut again. Your eyes are still on the ground and despite the blanket wrapped around you, you’re still shuddering head to toe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, quietly. “‘S none of my business. Here, uh, I’m gonna get the furnace going. Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With your nod of consent, he gets up with a grunt and sets about the task. You just listen to the comfortingly familiar sounds as he scrapes the ashes of yesterday’s fire out into a bucket, walks it outside and dumps it, and comes back with the bucket full of wood. He piles it up, sets kindling underneath it, and in less than ten minutes there’s a roaring fire.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kicks around the living room for a moment, then disappears again. When he comes back, he’s got a mug of strong-smelling tea. You didn’t know Stan </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> tea in that kitchen, and you wonder if he knew or just went rattling around for it. Either way, you appreciate the gesture. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He disappears one more time, then comes back with a sweater. It’s old and it has holes worn in the sleeves near the wrist, but it’s soft and cozy. “It doesn’t fit me anymore,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You take it and fold it across your lap. He goes to walk away again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, good Lord, enough is enough. You reach out and grab him by the sleeve, pulling him backward until he finally sits down on the couch beside you. You lean into his side with a long, shuddering sigh, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders immediately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think he took mail from my sister’s mailbox. It had the address on it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes him a beat to reply. “What was your sister sending, anyway?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Birthday card.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another beat passes, then two. “Is it your </span>
  <em>
    <span>birthday</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He says nothing else, just tightens his grip on you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room warms quickly thanks to the furnace. Behind the metal and glass, it crackles busily away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You clear your throat. It’s a little raw from the yelling and crying you’ve done in the last few hours. Fucking hell, has it only been two hours since you left work? “He was horrible.” The words hang in the air for a moment, then you plow onward. “At first he was just a little controlling, maybe a little manipulative. But he was charming and smart...he paid attention to me, always wanted to be around. We only dated for a year, then we were engaged for six months. I was so stupid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to talk about it,” he offers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. I want to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hesitates. “Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He...he changed the second we got married. After the ceremony--” you pause. Stan doesn’t really need to know that part. You’ve spent the better part of a decade actively trying to forget it. “I thought, you know, he’s just stressed. A new job, a new apartment, new spouse. I didn’t think much of it. But then he started saying just horrible things. He made fun of every part of me. My weight, my chest, my stomach, my ears, my nose. It was a joke to him. Everything was a joke and he was the funniest comedian and...I don't know. It was too late to just walk away, so I tried to make it work. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Charlie, hey, you know you don't have to tell me this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You pause. “Do you not want me to tell you? It would be okay, I know it’s upsetting—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That's not it </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I just--I don't want you to hurt anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You sniffle. “I--I think I </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to talk about it. I'm gonna explode if I don't.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” he says quietly. He rests his forehead on the top of your head. His breathing and heartbeat are close and quiet and they steady your own. “Okay. Take your time then, I'm not goin’ anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You live in the warm, quiet comfort of Stan’s arms until the proverbial chill of the real world creeps in again, and you just let the words tumble out. “So much of it was just the little things building up. The slow breakdown of my personal boundaries and the rights to my own body, the hateful words like death by a thousand cuts that reset at the beginning of every day, being ignored, being treated like a housekeeper, being told what to do without being explicitly </span>
  <em>
    <span>told</span>
  </em>
  <span> because I was just that badly fucking conditioned. I stopped being me for so many years of my life to please him and it wasn't enough—it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough. It's like he saw me and just saw a challenge like he was fucking breaking a horse or something. And he succeeded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He had control of all the money. I never knew how much he makes—I still don’t. But I couldn't purchase anything without him being right beside me. I had nothing that was my own. Not my clothes, not my body, not anything. H--he used to joke—he said if I got pregnant...he would just push me down the stairs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s entire body stiffens and he intakes a sharp, quiet breath. You can feel his rage, but you just laugh without humor, scrubbing tears off your face. You're trembling and hiccuping through sobs, but he’s steadfastly holding you somehow tightly enough to comfort, loose enough not to cause panic. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I'm sorry. I sound so fucking pathetic, I know I should have left sooner--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. Charlie, don't say that. I know how hard it is to get out, you did everything you could and goddammit I'm proud of you for just staying alive this long.” His hand tightens around your shoulder. “Keep going if you want. Take yer time, but don't </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>accuse me ‘a thinking you're anything but </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong as fuck.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’d leave for hours, sometimes overnight, and come home smelling like perfume,” you whisper. “Sometimes I'd break down and panic, like...well, you've seen it. He would either just keep talking like nothing was happening, or he would try to do something to ‘shock me out of it’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He hit you,” he mumbles into your hair.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or poured cold water on me or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stan’s jaw clenches. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I tried to leave three times before I actually got away the fourth time. I threatened to call the police, but he said he would lie and deny everything and they wouldn't believe me. Eventually I just...packed a bag and left in the middle of the night. I hitchhiked to my sister's house.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He lets out a breath that sounds something like a laugh. “That's so fucking dangerous, Charlie.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, I know. And I still got in the car with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time he does laugh, rumbling and deep. You smile and lean into the vibrations. “I’m glad you did,” he says quietly. After a long silence, he speaks again. “Let's pretend that...last week, that it never happened. Can we do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You hesitate. You don't want to forget it--you want to make it make sense. But you also missed this too much to turn him down, so you nod numbly. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and gives a gentle squeeze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we just stay here a while?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.” He leans back into the couch, taking you with him. Your head rests on his chest like a warm pillow and you can hear his heartbeat whooshing in your ears at the same pace as your own. “As long as you need.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi guys. In a surprising turn of events, I was actually able to finish this week’s chapter! It's a Christmas miracle lol. I just have a quick message. <br/>To anyone who feels like Charlie’s story is just a little too familiar, or Stan’s—there are a lot more resources now than there were in the eighties, and a lot less judgement. Please use https://ncadv.org/resources to find many different kinds of hotlines and resources for domestic violence and other types of situations. The website has a safety exit which, with one click, takes you back to google in an instant. <br/>Please also know that the modern legal definition of domestic violence does not include physical violence as a requirement. Gaslighting, emotional abuse, financial abuse, sexual abuse, all of this is domestic violence and just as damaging as physically abusive situations. Even if they never hit you, they may have still abused you. You are not less than those who have survived physically violent situations.<br/>To those of you who have lived Charlie’s story, and my story: you're not alone. You're not weak. You aren't gullible. You aren't worthless. If you feel like no one else in the world loves you, know that I do. I mean it when I invite people to talk to me via my tumblr under the same username. I've lived this shit, I've lived 90% of what Charlie’s spoken here, and I'm on the other side now. Please don't hesitate to reach out to me. </p>
<p>Merry Christmas to everyone but domestic abusers, and thanks for reading &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>IM BACK! Happy new year everyone! I've got two chapters for ya'll today for waiting for me for so long ❤️ Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You sleep in Stan’s holey old sweater. It’s dumb, but every time you wake up during the night with your heart racing, you can run your hands over the worn knit and remember that you aren’t alone, and you aren’t in danger. It’s not a restful night of sleep, but it’s better than the panicked frenzy that all-nighters bring on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For your first few bleary moments of consciousness, everything is fine. You blink at the ceiling, trying to get your vision to come into focus, and that’s when it abruptly stops being fine. Your puffy eyes remind you of all the shed tears last night, of crying into Stan’s side until finally you were too tired to sit up anymore. You remember that you had to see</span>
  <em>
    <span> him</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the first time in months, and he could have killed Stan with that knife, and you--you were so close to being his again…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare blankly at the ceiling while you try to sort out the remnants of dreams clinging to you. All the usual suspects were there--the scenario where you go back to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> because you forgot what he’s like, the one where he finds you and takes you back by force. The one where you’re in danger and you don't know what he’ll do, but you have to fake loving him to keep yourself safe. His imaginary touches burn red marks into your body and you feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>dirty</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You know your waking self would never do these things. Then, you've done a lot of things you wouldn’t have predicted, haven’t you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lay in bed for a long time. The morning sun turns the gray room yellow, then slants in through the blinds, then disappears again as it rises over the shack. All you can do is lay there and think. Think about the times he hurt you, think about the times he loved you, think about how you sometimes miss him even though he was horrible, how you care about him even though he could very well kill you. Why is it so easy to be compassionate, and so hard to move on?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan knocks gently on the door, then peeks in. He hesitates until you meet his eyes, then he comes in fully. A mug of hot coffee is in one hand, a foil packet of poptarts in the other one. He sets both of them down on the flea-market side table and crouches beside the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don't move to sit up, just turn on your side to face him and tuck your hands beneath your cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you might want some coffee. I can make real breakfast too, but if you don't feel like getting out of bed, there’s this.” He pats the wrapper, giving it a loud crinkle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You give him a wobbly smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles back, just as wobbly. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. You're not okay, you can't remember the last time you </span>
  <em>
    <span>were</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But you also aren’t dying, so you nod yes. “Aren't you going to work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, Dan and his old man usually start the winter break around this time anyway. The machines start to freeze n’all. I just told ‘em I won't be in again this season.” He hesitates. “I didn't think you'd want to be alone. If I'm wrong--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” You pause, soften your tone. “No, you're right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods slowly. “I’m gonna do some reading today. You want to come sit on the couch with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You have to give it a little thought. For half a second you think to just have him sit on the bed beside you, but that hardly seems appropriate. Living room it is, then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He carries the coffee for you while you carry your entire comforter and your own book. It takes a minute for the both of you to get settled--Stan brings in his own coffee and his stack of books, you take the moment of uprightness to down your coffee as fast as possible. Stan ends up tucked under a corner of the comforter too, so you stuff your feet between the couch cushions and his back to keep them warm. Even with the furnace churning out hot, dry air, there’s still gobs and gobs of snow outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nice to see Stan read easier. With his glasses perched on his nose, he can actually hold the book against the arm of the chair and read from a distance rather than holding it right up to his face and squinting into oblivion. The black paint on the metal frames is already chipped here and there and he’s missing one of the gel pads that go on the nose, confirming two things to you: Stan is very rough on his things, and he really needed those glasses. You can’t see the spine of the book from this angle, but judging by the sheer size of it and the interior layout, it looks like another textbook. You thank heavens once again that you did not choose the route of science major; you had no idea how much extra reading and research was required until you met Stan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You drift in and out of restless dozing for an indeterminate amount of time. Stan’s always there when you wake up, though he switches from reading to TV-watching once the sun goes down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your drift between the waking world and sleep is interrupted when he pats the comforter over your leg. “You hungry, C?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” you automatically answer. You stretch your legs out over his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, humor me. You haven’t had anything besides coffee today--at least have some water and a sandwich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In all honesty, you are hungry. It’s just the thought of standing up, walking to the kitchen, making yourself food that likely doesn’t sound appealing, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>eating it seems like too much to tackle. You just want to keep zoning out in peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” he says finally. “I’m making myself a sandwich, and I’m bringin’ you one too.” He shoves your legs off his lap and disappears into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guilt washes over you in tiny waves. He shouldn’t have to make you food just because you’re too mopey to do it for yourself. Nothing life-changing happened yesterday, you moved on a long time ago, so why can’t you just get up and move on with your life? Why do you feel like you’re going to tremble apart? It’s exhausting and pathetic. You really aren’t ever going to amount to anything at this rate, living in another man’s house and mooching off his hospitality. Even your plan to leave is falling apart again, since you didn’t just have the guts to negotiate a higher wage for yourself--just took the extra pennies and walked away with your tail between your legs. You’ll never use your degree, you’ll never escape his shadow, you’ll never be whole again. You’ll never recover. You made one stupid, young mistake when you were blinded by love and smooth lies, and it’s going to ruin the rest of your goddamn life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hurts. It hurts in the corner of your eyes as tears gather there again, it hurts in your throat, it hurts in your chest, it hurts in your shoulders and your knees and the joints of your fingers. Exhaustion eats you to the bone until you’re nothing but sinew and decay and divorce papers. You’re nothing but the empty place on your finger where a ring used to be, you’re nothing but a cowardly louse, you’re nothing. You’re nothing, you’re nothing, you’re nothing. And Stan is in the kitchen making you a sandwich.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cover your face with the comforter and stifle sobs with your fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s hand on your shoulder startles a yelp out of you, rubbing that much more shame into your wounds. His mouth hangs open for a moment like he’s going to speak, then he just gathers you into his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You always fit so perfectly into them. The first time he hugged you and you had nowhere to go, when he caught you drunkenly stumbling across a field at who knows what hour of the night, when he pulled you close in the dark and tucked his chin over your head until you felt like the safest person on earth. It’s no different now as he lifts you, duvet and all, and pulls you into his lap on the floor. He just holds you to his chest with a certain amount of desperate pressure that sends you flying over the edge. You wrap your fist in the cloth of his shirt and sob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It might be two minutes, it might be twenty, you have no idea—but you eventually run out of tears. All that’s left is shuddering breaths and hiccups. “I’m sorry.” You whisper because it’s all you can manage. “I’m sorry I’m here, I’m sorry I got you into this whole mess. I’m so sorry about your car, I can cover the bill to fix it. I--I’m sorry I don’t bring in more money, I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen </span>
  </em>
  <span>those mortgage bills--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie, Charlie.” He tightens his grip. “Stop, you don’t need to be sorry for any’a that stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One more minuscule sob shudders out of you. “I was gonna leave. After thanksgiving--I didn’t think--I thought I messed everything up. I’m sorry Stan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C…” he trails off. His chin rests on the crown of your head and you can feel the sigh that escapes his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to make it sound like you aren’t good enough, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I just--I live here, this has been my home for months and I don’t want to leave, but I don’t want to be stuck either. Does that make sense?” You pull away to look at him, and his brows are furrowed tight. It doesn’t make sense. “I wasn’t allowed to have a job, I didn’t have a car, I had no freedom. And now I’m terrified of losing it, of being trapped and having to go back to my sister--I can’t do it all again. I’m terrified,” you whisper. “If something happens with us, I'll be the one out of job and home again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes soften as it sets in. “No, no, I don’t--fuck, I know it must not mean much, but I’m not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I don’t think there’s anything you could do to me that’d make me kick you out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes drift away as you think of all the ways you could prove him wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives you a shake. “Hey, hey look at me. I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> homeless, I would never do that to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if you’re wrong? What if all I ever do is live here while you pay my bills and I make minimum wage at the grocery store, and you just have to deal with me for the rest of your life? What if I just never get better? What then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes dart back and forth across your face for a tense, silent moment. “Then I love ya anyway. Your worth to me isn’t tied to how much money ya make.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence passes between you, deafening after your own sobs. Blood rushes in your ears in a steady, dizzying beat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't mind takin’ care of you. You know that, right? I mean it. If you wanna stay in bed for the next week, I’ll bring ya coffee and three squares a day.” He gives your shoulders a gentle shake and smiles. “You matter to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lift one of your hands to his. “You matter to me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods. “Good. Listen, I got sandwiches for both of us ‘n I’m sure we can find something good on TV. Let’s get comfy and we can talk more about this later, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod reluctantly. You still don’t want to eat--if anything, you want to eat even </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span> now. But Stan’s gonna guilt you into it with his brown puppy dog eyes regardless, so there’s no use putting up a fight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Later on, you sleep in his sweater again.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Things return to normal by degrees. At first, like promised, Stan’s there for you 24/7. Then you start going back to work, and he starts spending all hours of the day and night in the basement. You still aren't sure what he’s working on down there, and he isn’t very forthcoming, but it doesn’t bother you as much anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you’re the one making the coffee in the morning since Stan is sleeping until noon or even later sometimes. Seeing his face light up every time you bring a fresh mug to the living room for him is worth it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The store gets busier with all the pre-holiday shopping. It’s Christmas music and red and green everything all the time. The town puts their lights out in the square, houses are decked out with lights and inflatable snowmen and real snowmen, too. The snow never really went away after that big one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dan told me what happened,” Sharon says in the rare moment neither of you are busy at the register. “I’m sorry, I’m real glad you’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s all just too fresh still, maybe you’re just a sap. Either way, you walk all the way around to her register to give her a hug. Part of you is glad you didn’t have to leave the store, even if you are making a pittance an hour, because until this very moment you didn’t realize how much Sharon has grown on you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the end of your shift, you go through Sharon’s checkout lane to buy a little poinsettia in a foil-wrapped pot. She rubs a leaf between her fingers and smiles at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did Stan get a Christmas tree?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Counting out change in your palm, it takes you a moment to answer. “Uhh, Stan’s Jewish. I don’t think he really celebrates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s a bummer. Are you going home for the holiday?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t have any other home to go to, really, but you don’t need to tell her that. “I don’t know yet,” you shrug with a smile. “What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes light up. “I’m going up north to my grandparents’ place. All my cousins are gonna be there. Oh, you’d love my cousin Ariel, she’s a hoot.” She hands you the receipt and the poinsettia. “Anyway, have a good night! I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bright and early.” You give her a wink, which she cheekily returns, and head out to the Stanleymobile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The damage to the rear fender always stops you short. Even nearly two weeks later, it erases the smile from your face and makes your heart hammer in your chest. Stan’s already made it clear that he won't let you pay for the damage (not that it’s stopped you from slipping a crisp twenty into his wallet when he isn't looking), and that he’ll fix it himself once the weather's nicer. You wish he would just let you pay for it, no matter how high the cost, so you won't have to look at it every day until spring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re still not over how kind of him it is to let you keep using the car, even after everything that happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At home (yes, finally, this is home), you put the poinsettia on the kitchen table and after a trip to your bedroom, place a small wrapped package underneath it. Stan doesn’t seem to be around--he’s either downstairs working or upstairs sleeping, and you aren’t about to interrupt either one of those activities. He’ll see it eventually, nothing this shiny escapes his notice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with Stan off somewhere else...you should probably do that thing you’ve been putting off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You drag a kitchen chair to where the phone hangs on the wall and punch in your sister’s number. When she answers, calling you by your real name, you flinch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lay on a thick layer of face happy to reply. “Hey sis. How’s everyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s fine. The boys are driving me crazy but what’s new. How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m...okay. Stan’s been really helpful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still wish he’d just finished off the son of a bitch,” she mutters. “I’m never gonna trust my mailbox again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You give her a weak chuckle. “I’m still not mad at you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know.” She sighs. “Are you coming for Christmas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there’s the question you were waiting for. And dreading. “Would it be okay if I...didn’t? I’m not trying to avoid you guys, I promise, I just don’t think I’m ready to...be there? Even the thought of being in the same city as him…” It makes you sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Diane, nobody’s going to fault you for wanting to stay put.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You close your eyes and press your forehead against the wall. Maybe it’s because you hear it in </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>voice, maybe it’s because the name never quite felt right to begin with, but every time she calls you by your given name instead of Charlie, your entire being </span>
  <em>
    <span>flinches</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The thought of going multiple days without hearing someone call you this name you’ve become accustomed feels nigh upon intolerable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well...thanks. I’ll call on Christmas and say hi to everyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom’s not gonna like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a stretch of silence. “So this...Stanford guy. He’s a good one, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He's the best,” you reply automatically. “I mean, for a roommate. There’s a lot of extra space in this house, and he cleans up after himself...sort of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you together?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wh--psh-uh, no, we are not! What even made you think that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh come on, you went camping with the guy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is that even supposed to mean!” You sit up, throwing a hand out in the air as if she could see you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh please, I know how much you hate the great outdoors. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> mosquitos.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It--it was November, there were no mosquitos,” you reply weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, I’ve known you since birth, I know when you’re lying. Fess up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sigh at length, letting it turn into a groan at the end. “There was something, but I freaked out and he...he just wants to pretend it didn’t happen now. And then with you-know-who showing up, and me freaking out </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>--I mean, I’m a hot mess, I couldn’t blame him for just not wanting to put up with me now. And then there’s the fact that I’d just be diving from one relationship into another one--what’s up with that? I--I can’t do it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoaaa, take a breath.” There’s a crash in the background and the hallmark sounds of one boy child shouting at another. “I--I don’t even have time to unpack all that, but I do know you’re probably overthinking all of it. Do you like him still?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah, but I blew it. I’m just--I’m gonna just be friends with him now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s another crash, and she pulls away from the phone to yell something at the boys. “I gotta go, but we’re definitely talking about this more later. Go easy on yourself, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. Tell the boys I said hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hangs up without saying goodbye--which, if the crash in the background was any indication, was probably necessary. You hang the phone on the receiver and knock your head into the wall again.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“You’ll never guess what I stole this week,” Stan says, scooting his chair into the table. He’s got that ornery grin on his face that always spells trouble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take a long drink of coffee before replying. “Okay, lay it on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips a hand into his sweatpants pocket and withdraws a single cassette tape. “Bing Crosby, White Christmas.” The grin hasn’t faded in the least. “I didn’t have any Christmas tapes, thought you might want to listen to it a little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, that’s sweet.” You take the proffered tape and turn it over in your hands a few times. It’s a simple gesture (and a stolen one at that), but it’s so wholeheartedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “So uh, do you celebrate Christmas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ehhh.” He waves a hand side to side, then thinks for a moment while digging into his noontime breakfast. “Ma was okay with us celebratin’ a little, specially for school stuff. Didn’t want us to get picked on by the other kids, ya know? Pa was a little more strict, he didn’t want the neighbors to see and...I dunno, tell the rabbi or somethin’.” He shovels another bite of egg and toast into his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like your pa really cared about appearances,” you mutter. It’s an offhand comment--not something you even thought about, but you cringe the moment it leaves your tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.” Stan pauses and stares into the middle distance for a moment. “Am I like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink, externally neutral and internally panicking. Is he? He certainly cares about the appearance of his business, but that’s just good practice. Then there’s the fact that you’re ninety percent sure that he cut his hair because stupid boys half his age were mocking him...but there’s also Stan, not caring what people think when he says he used to be homeless, not caring about the busted fender of his car as he drives around town, not caring about whether or not his shirt has a mustard stain because it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>his favorite shirt and it’s not ready to give up the ghost, dammit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” you decide. “You care about it where it matters, but not like he did. Or, how I think he did. You just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cocks his head, giving you his full attention for a moment. “I what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cover a smirk with your napkin. “You just don’t give a shit. In a good way,” you rush to add.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles first, then tilts his head up and earnestly laughs. He removes his glasses to wipe his eyes, then rests his head in his hands. “What were we even talkin’ about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christmas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Yeah, well, I guess I don’t really celebrate. I didn’t even think of asking you if you do, how jerkish is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So jerkish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With his fork, he pokes at the poinsettia. “Looks like this little guy’s all we got for a tree.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie Brown would be proud of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snickers. “Can I call you Charlie Brown until the season’s over?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha--</span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you definitely cannot. Don’t abuse your nickname privileges.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m calling you Chuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chucky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good Ol’ Chuckles--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--</span>
  <em>
    <span>I will kill you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan dissolves into breathless laughter, gripping the edge of the table and nearly doubled over. You’re glad </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> thinks it’s so funny--you’re having a very hard time pretending you don’t also, but you’ve seen the consequences of encouraging him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you could stay on topic for two seconds, Stan, I was trying to say I’m not leaving for Christmas. I’m gonna be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His expression goes straight instantly. “What? Why? If you don’t have a way t’get home, I can drive you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, uh, no that’s really nice of you to offer, but I just...didn’t want to go.” You push food around on your near-empty plate. “I don’t want to risk running into...you-know-who, and…” and it feels viscerally wrong when someone calls you anything besides Charlie, and you haven’t spent more than two consecutive days without seeing Stan since you moved in almost six months ago, and you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel like going.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you’re welcome to stay here. Uh...too late to get a tree though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh. “I know. I’m not worried about it. I was thinking though--since we didn’t cook for Thanksgiving, maybe I could make Christmas dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks about it for a moment. “Alright, but only if you let me help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tch, like I’d let you get away without helping?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I don’t see you makin’ pancakes once a week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Touché.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The poinsettia-slash-Christmas-tree on the table still has the little golden-wrapped gift for Stan sitting beside it. Stan hasn’t directly said anything about it, though you’ve seen him eyeballing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you got the gift, part of you hoped that Stan wouldn’t get you anything in return; you already owed him more than you could ever give back, you didn’t need another thing on your tab. You didn’t mind--it’s like he owes you anything, especially as a person who doesn't celebrate the holiday. Still, you have to admit it was a little surprising to see a week pass without another gift appearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh well. Christmas is in less than a week and with or without an exchange of gifts, you know it’ll be another cozy and laid back holiday with Stan. Hopefully </span>
  <em>
    <span>without</span>
  </em>
  <span> the strange mountain monster encounter this time. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: this chapter discusses food and eating at some length</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Christmas without children seems sort of pointless. There's no illusion of Santa Claus, no magic or mystery to spread. Gifts aren't as much fun, it’s too quiet, it’s too stoic. Kids liven up Christmas in a way nothing else can, stealing candy canes from the tree and spreading wide-eyed excitement, waking you up with screams of delight </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> too early in the morning. There are two phases in life where it's worthwhile to celebrate Christmas: when you're a kid, and when you </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>kids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wouldn't give him children, not even in the brief few years that he wanted them. Even before you knew you needed to leave, you knew children didn't need to be part of the relationship...no matter how much you may have once wanted them. You spent Christmas with his friends and coworkers, people who also didn't have children but </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>have far too much time and money on their hands. Christmas morning was about doing your hair and makeup and fixing his tie and making sure you both looked immaculate, and you had a side ready to bring. You sat in pantyhose and some form of too-expensive holiday dress you didn't get to pick for yourself with people you didn't want to spend time with. There was no exchange of gifts--not until you and your own family had Christmas together the day afterward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christmas wasn't so bad last year, waking up to your nephews bursting into your room at o-dark-thirty in the morning. But it was still the first Christmas in nearly a decade that you had spent without a ring on your finger, and you still spent the entire day on edge that he would appear. He did, and your brother in law met him at the door with a shotgun that hadn't been fired since your grandpa became too old to hunt. You hid in your room until he left and long afterward too, muffling terrified and heartbroken sobs with your borrowed pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On this Christmas morning, you wake from a nightmare of a gray, dreary holiday party and one too many glasses of champagne that numb you for when he gets handsy later. You stare at the ceiling while bitter thoughts run through your head and the wind whips around the cabin outside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're just kind of tired of Christmas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes snap to the doorknob as it turns slowly. For just half a second you're scared, and then Stan’s head pokes through the opening, grinning like a fool. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws the door wide open and strides in with his boombox held aloft, blaring Bing Crosby. He sings along in the right tune, but nonsense lyrics, and plops down on the bed beside you. “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alright, maybe you can give Christmas one last chance.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>With the same Christmas tape playing on repeat, you and Stan don aprons and get cracking. By the third time the tape plays, Stan’s picked up on the lyrics and belts them out in his rough baritone. He makes the raw turkey dance on the counter, which you then wash </span>
  <em>
    <span>thoroughly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and before you know it, the morning’s over already. Stan puts two pies in the oven at noon, you put the potato salad in the fridge to chill, and you both collapse with a sigh at the kitchen table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan clicks the stereo off and revels in the silence, eyes closed. “We’re gonna be eating leftovers for weeks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll eat all that turkey before Easter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts and leans forward on his elbows. With his fists propping up his cheeks, he just stares at you idly for a moment. It doesn’t take long for you to get self conscious enough to ask him what he’s looking at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just thinkin’. So--you’re...planning on staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink as your mind catches up to whatever conversation Stan’s been having with himself. “You mean staying here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The grain in the table becomes very interesting all of a sudden. “Like, in the shack here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your brow furrows. “I--yeah, of course. I thought I already said so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets out a big puff of air and his shoulders go slack. “Good.” He meets your eyes again, more sure of himself now. “I mean, well, yeah good because I’m glad you’re staying, not that I couldn't get along without--you know what, I’m gonna stop talking.” He clears his throat. “Okay, uh, I have a gift for you. It’s not anything special, but it’s somethin’, y’know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hesitate. Of course he had a gift all along, now you feel bad for doubting him. “You don’t want to wait until after dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cocks his head ever so slightly. “Do you want to wait until after dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No--I mean, not unless you want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You narrow your eyes at each other for a moment before the tension breaks, and you both laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can ya just tell me what the fuck you want?” he laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cover your hot cheeks with your hand. “Yes, we’ll do it now. Go get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan disappears loudly, house shoes slapping on the steps. You take the little golden gift out of the poinsettia pot, turning it over and over in your hands. Last-moment buyers remorse sets in and sends your heart fluttering in your chest. What if he doesn't like it? Did he only get you a gift because he felt obligated to? Is giving him a Christmas gift disrespectful to his Jewish roots? It doesn't matter, because it's too late to rescind it and he’s already coming down the hallway again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's holding a Manila envelope with a length of ribbon tied around it--he clutches it with both hands nervously and hesitates in the doorway before returning to his chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here.” You slide the box across the table. “You first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan holds it gingerly in his fingers. Have his hands always been this big? He makes quick work of the wrapping paper as your heart hammers ever faster in your chest. What if he doesn't like it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he flips the box over, he rests his fingers on the top. He doesn't move or speak for what feels like a very long time. When he finally lifts his head, his face is lit up like the sun and all the stars. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The box of oil pastels in his hand is smaller than you wanted it to be--as it turns out, art supplies are expensive. Go figure. But they're something he can touch and smear and make art with and honestly, it's as much a gift to yourself as to him if he keeps sharing his art like he has so far. “I hope they work for you,” your voice comes out paper-thin. “I don't know much about art.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scoffs a laugh, looking down at them again. “Neither do I. But these are real nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another absent moment passes as he examines the box. You wonder, as you frequently do, what’s going through his head. Finally he sets the pastels aside and slides the envelope toward you. “It's not much, I--I ain't good at gifts. But y’know, I just thought...well, I'll tell you in a minute.” he gestures to the package.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The envelope is thin, not containing more than ten or so pages inside. You slide them out carefully, only for your confusion to continue when you lay eyes on them. It looks like some kind of...legal document? You thumb through them, catching words like </span>
  <em>
    <span>business</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>share</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>partner</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This can't be what you think it is. You look to Stan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s thirty percent. I have no idea how much the business is worth--technically, I may have neglected to actually...</span>
  <em>
    <span>register it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “Just take it as a little bit’a proof that I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> gonna kick you out. And if you wanna leave sometime, I'll buy it back from ya. It's a little investment of sorts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You realize your mouth is hanging open only when your head snaps back down to look at the documents again. You rifle through them more urgently and realize--on the very last page, there’s Stan’s signature and an empty spot below it waiting for yours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course if you don't want it, that's fine, I just thought I'd give ya a chance to decide--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His verbal stumbling stops short when you stand suddenly, then lunge across the table to hug him. He laughs and puts a warm hand on your back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it’s okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pull away but leave your hands on his shoulders because if you don’t, he’ll see how hard your hands are shaking. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Stan--I actually can't even accept this. The shack--she’s your </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes soften. “She’s yer baby too y’know. Wouldn't be what it is today if you didn't help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're not going to cry. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to cry over this. “I don't want you to feel like you have to do this. I'm staying either way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey. You told me you didn't want to be dependent on me, and you shouldn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be. I’m givin ya a gift, not an obligation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let out a wet laugh, something that could have been a sob in a different situation. “You’re ridiculous. You’re--you’re just ridiculous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs a pen from the table and holds it out to you, grinning a mile wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shuffle through the papers one more time, not even bothering to sit down. You have to make sure Stan didn’t sneak some dumb clause in there that he can use for laughs later. Once you’re assured that this is a pretty standard, if somewhat misspelled, business contract, you put the last page down and go to sign it. Your pen stops just above the paper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head. “Nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sign it </span>
  <em>
    <span>Charlie.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Listen it's bad enough that I'm making you read Christmas chapters in February, I'm sure as heck not gonna make you read them two weeks in a row. BEGONE, CHRISTMAS</p><p>TW: this chapter discusses food, overeating (briefly) and the regular abuse stuff at some length.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You eat at least three Christmas Dinners, going back for seconds and eventually thirds and then grazing from the lineup on the counter. Stan eats nearly an entire pie by himself, complaining the whole time that this is why he’s so fat and why are you just standing by and letting him do this to himself? You watch Charlie Brown’s Christmas on the local network, and Stan looks at you with a cheesy grin every time someone says the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>Charlie Brown</span>
  </em>
  <span> like it’s the funniest damn thing in the world. It isn’t, but his smile is infectious anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, you clean up the kitchen as much as you can in one night, packing leftovers into the fridge however they’ll fit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you collapse into your chair at the table, Stan disappears down the hallway. You hear his feet on the stairs all the way up to the vacant attic loft, then all the way back down. He’s winded by the time he reenters the kitchen, two boxes stacked in his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I picked these up in the thrift shop the other day,” he says with a flash of a toothy grin. “Thought it might help us pass the time next time we're snowed in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smile at the board games he sets on the table. Trouble and Battleship, tattered and held together by tape at the corners, but familiar and welcome all the same. You open Trouble, the one on top, and set the lid upside down. Stan immediately digs in to set up the board.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Writing on the inside of the box gives you pause--in wobbly, too-big letters, a child’s name is spelled out. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tate McGucket</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Huh, seems like you’re getting a little help from a kid this Christmas after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You play both games twice, then Stan whips out a deck of cards and a box of faded plastic chips and he finally teaches you poker. Most of the rules are lost on you in the late-night laughter and exhaustion, but you have fun and that’s what really matters anyway. It's warmer and more inviting than any Christmas you’ve had since childhood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You part ways after one in the morning, nearly too exhausted for words. Still, Stan gets in one last parting shot of </span>
  <em>
    <span>merry Christmas, Charlie Brown</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and slings one arm around you in a warm, lazy hug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your room is colder than the kitchen though, filled with a lonely chill that can’t be fought off with any amount of blankets or wool socks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s always hardest at night, when your mind is idle and inevitably drifts toward the things you don’t let yourself think of during the day. Memories flash across the back of your eyelids like some Greek tragedy, full of all-consuming sorrow and fear and anger and hopelessness. You aren’t Helen of Troy, you’re Achilles running across the battlefield with an arrow in his heel that will kill him in moments. You’re so tired of laying in bed and feeling sorry for yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you get up. You wrap a comforter around your shoulders and ghost into the living room. The furnace is still glowing hot orange and red while the electric fan churns out dry, warm air. You sit down in front of it and stare at the coals for a while.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You had such a good day, why are you going to ruin it for yourself now? You feel empty and void, unable to fully form a thought or figure out what you want or what would make you feel better. Why is it always like this? Why are you stuck between sitting here contemplating life, laying on the floor and weeping, or succumbing to the inevitable Christmas-themed nightmares you’ll have?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can’t even stand your own thoughts. You grip your hair in your fists and screw your eyes closed until hot tears well up at the corners. You’re so dramatic, always making yourself the victim, always ruining your own happiness. Can’t you just shut up? Shut up! Why is it so hard to get some peace and quiet from your own mind!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Put yourself in a better place. In a tent on a mountain you didn’t want to climb, in a sleeping bag with your face in Stan Pines’ chest, breathing in the woodsmoke on his clothes. Listening to his heart beat. Relishing the warm, prickly feeling his stubble left on your lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, you’d give anything to go back to that moment. If you could travel back in time and shake yourself silly, replace that Charlie who didn’t know what the fuck was good for them, you’d do it in a heart beat. You’d pay everything you have for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You still could have it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, a voice whispers in the back of your head. It sounds suspiciously like your sister. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare at the coals a moment longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is stupid. If you want to hold Stan so much, shouldn’t you just go do it? No, you don’t want to ruin what you have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No! You already tried that once and it made the house miserable and cold and hostile. You need to just come clean and ask Stan once and for all how he feels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what about his hazy history? You don’t know why he went to school or what he’s working on in the basement or why he always drops his voice an octave when he talks on the phone with his mom. Isn’t that suspicious?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then again...don't you also do all of that? You have a degree you aren’t using, and things you haven’t told him, and you know you have a customer service voice because Sharon loves to tease you for it. Isn’t that all just the same thing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You want him. You want him, so why don’t you just go get him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re up and moving, comforter cape billowing behind you as you walk past your own room and climb the steps up to Stan’s. Only once you reach the door do you hesitate. What are you thinking? It’s something like two in the morning, Stan’s fast asleep. You can’t wake him up to have this conversation. This can wait until morning. Or...never. You’ll just sleep on the couch for tonight and tomorrow will be a better day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn to go back down the steps, and the door creaks open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You freeze. Turn back to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything okay?” He rubs at his eyes. He was definitely asleep. Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhh, yeah. I was just--I had--Uh, never mind. I’m sorry I woke you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches out and just brushes the tips of his fingers against your arm as you turn away again. It stops you dead. “I’m a light sleeper.” There’s a long pause. “I know you wouldn’t be up here in the middle of th’night for nothin’, Charles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You work your jaw for a second. “I just…” Your heart beats a million miles a minute. You swallow dryly. “Could I just...rest with you for a bit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth twitches into a small smile. The door opens wider and he gestures you in. “It’s a little messy,” he mumbles, kicking aside a pile of socks. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” you murmur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His bed is narrow, maybe more so than yours. You get situated on the far side of the bed and Stan only follows you once you’ve stilled. There isn’t a whole lot of space to leave between your bodies, you can feel the heat radiating off Stan under the covers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this okay?” He whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Merry Chrimmas,” he mumbles. A snore follows the words not half a minute later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smile to yourself. “Merry Christmas.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy Chrysler</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT AND VIOLENCE. If you're a survivor of sexual abuse or assault, I recommend approaching this chapter very cautiously and only if you're in a good place. The subject matter may be triggering.</p><p>Hey guys, sorry for missing the update, this chapter just kicked my ass and my brain isn't doing so hot lately. But your comments and encouragement mean the world to me, thank you. And a big thank you to my friend Betsie, who gave me the encouragement and push I needed to finish this chapter. You're a lifesaver!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When you wake up in Stan’s arms you decide not to run this time. Instead you watch the snow fall lazily outside his window. Every little twitch of his arm or catch in his steady snoring makes your heart leap into your throat. This moment is warm and peaceful, but when he wakes up...you need to talk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can tell when he wakes mostly because he stops snoring. The bed moves pretty violently as he repositions himself, and then...his hand runs down the length of your arm. He scoots a little closer and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck, then your shoulder. Even through the flannel of your pajama shirt, his skin feels like it's burning against you. His stubble pokes through the weave of the fabric, making you involuntarily gasp while a shudder runs down your spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jerks away like you're made of fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You roll over in the bed, sure that your face is the color of a tomato. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” he says weakly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” you whisper back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I thought you were asleep--shit, that makes it worse. That's really creepy of me, I'm so sorry. I--” he hesitates, and you almost take that opportunity to interrupt him, but your heart’s in your throat. “I thought I was dreaming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You melt like fondue. Your hand finds his under the covers and you have to laugh, otherwise the pent-up energy will come out in a sob. “Stan, it's okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't say anything in response, just squeezes your fingers and avoids your gaze. You want to scoot closer and kiss him, you want to tuck yourself under him like a shelter and sleep the day away. But he’s all the way on the other side of the bed, flushed and embarrassed because he thought he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>dreaming about you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. God, he dreams about you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you're laying side by side in this narrow bed, warm and cozy under the same blankets, the world outside is being buried in the hush of snow. There's nothing to do today, nothing standing in the way from talking all day, if that's what needs to happen. There’s nothing stopping you. And you're tired of holding him at arms’ length. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can't think of any other way to say it, and maybe it's just the adrenaline from the unexpected touch, but the words tumble out of your mouth all the same. “Do you want me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s eyes meet yours, blown wide with surprise. His cheeks are immediately red and it takes a moment of working his jaw to actually get anything out. “Not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span> like that, definitely--but not like that if you don't want that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a yes or no question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie…” He clamps his mouth shut, looking steadily into your eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just tell me the truth,” you whisper pleadingly. “Whatever it is, I can take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brings your hand to his forehead, tucking his chin against his head and hiding behind you. “I adore you. You're the best thing that's happened to me maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I miss you when you're not around and the week where we didn't talk felt like dying every mornin’ when I got outta bed.” A frustrated sigh tears out of his throat. “And I'm sorry if that's not what you want, I just--it's not that I fall in--that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> every person I come across, there's just something about you that--” he stops himself short again. “I ain't good at this. I--I don't know what else to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wriggle your fingers free of his hand and press your cool palm to his hot cheek instead. His eyes rise to yours again and something happens. Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>clicks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and before you know it your mouths are slotted together like two halves of a whole. He puts a hand on your lower back and draws you closer, further into the kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You break away, panting like you've run a marathon when really, you've only just begun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you're not comfortable with--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” you mumble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You press your lips against his again, and when his tongue darts across your bottom lip, you instantly open your mouth to accept it. Peace washes over you like a wave, warming you to the tips of your toes. This feeling, this--this </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it's been </span>
  <em>
    <span>so long. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His hand in the small of your back, strong fingers splayed and warm and right where they need to be, send tiny sparks of something coursing through you. Everything at once brings tears to your eyes, and before you know it you’re crying in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, C, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hey,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he backs away from you and props himself up on his elbow, keeling contact only with one hand on your shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give me a second, just--” you gasp in a shaky breath and clamp a hand over your mouth. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't say anything, or move. It takes you a moment to sit up and swipe tears out of your eyes and get yourself together. When you do, he's sitting beside you ready and waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let out a tearful little laugh. “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S’okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, you haven't even gotten out of bed yet but you need a </span>
  <em>
    <span>stiff</span>
  </em>
  <span> drink. You want to break the silence and explain what's going on in your head, beat him to the punch of blaming himself, but you can't form words. The only thing in your head swirling around and around is </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, repeated until infinity. It's like someone took out your brain and replaced it with cotton.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that was the wrong thing to say...I'm sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that wasn't wrong at all. I just--it's, it's been a while since I...y’know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I tell you something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take a long, deep breath and grab his hand again. He laces your fingers together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My…” one word and you're already stalled. The right term always escapes you--how do you describe </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> in a single word, without having to say his name? Abuser? Ex husband? Former husband? Just ex? None of them sound right in your mouth. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The guy that showed up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. I know who you're talking about, you don't have to say it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a fucking relief. If his name never leaves your mouth again it will still be too soon. You take a shaky breath to continue. “He would...force me into things. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>touched</span>
  </em>
  <span>, all the time, everywhere. I didn't have a say in it, I didn't get to say no. But he never touched without a </span>
  <em>
    <span>motive</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I didn't get to initiate love or--or be close without him making it sexual.” Even as you speak you can feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> hands, jealous and grabbing and </span>
  <em>
    <span>burning</span>
  </em>
  <span> all over your body. You hear him calling you a slut and a whore, digging nails into flesh, hitting, shaming, pinching, biting, </span>
  <em>
    <span>touching</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I just, I feel like you need to know that. ‘Cause I want to be with you, Stan, more than just a business partner. You make me feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you make me laugh. You're not perfect but you're always there when I need you. I want that. But I can't be what you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His brow furrows. “I...don't get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't want to have sex!” you burst out. “I don't even think I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not right now anyway. Maybe not for a long time.”</span>
</p><p><span>“Whoa, hang on.” Stan tugs on your hand almost roughly--leaning out to look you in the eyes. “Charlie, I don't expect that</span> <span>from you.” His eyes soften. “Do I come off that bad?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“No, no, I just--you're so confident--you're </span>
  <em>
    <span>sexy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>assumed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’know what my ma says about assumin’? Makes an </span>
  <em>
    <span>ass</span>
  </em>
  <span> out of </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘u’</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘mi’</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh faintly. “But...I mean,” you look away, studying the threads of Stan’s pillowcase. “I don't know if I'll ever bounce back Stan. I don't want to deprive you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He splutters for a second. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Deprive</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Charlie, I've only ever slept with, like, three people! Like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> three! I don't—” he scoffs “—where did you even get the idea that I need that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You're flirty!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well so are you,” he pouts, but squeezes your hand a moment later. “I don't expect anything from you. This bein’ close thing is nice, sure, but if you aren't ready, or need space--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, this is good. This, right here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles. “I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>later</span>
  </em>
  <span>, with other things. I’m never gonna pressure you to do somethin' you don't want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's not that I don't want to…” you falter under his gaze. Whatever gusto you mustered up is utterly spent now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you set the pace. I'm a patient man, Charles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An ugly snort of a giggle leaps out of your throat. You clamp your free hand over your mouth. Stan snorts too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am, I promise. I don't want anything from you except </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, ya get me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod and swallow the tears that try to leap out again. You collapse into his side and burrow yourself in between his arm and body. He’s so impossibly warm in this freezing room, and the scent of him is overwhelming. “Can we just...take a nap now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You're speakin’ my language, C.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wraps his big arms around you and lays you both down on your sides facing the window. You back up into him until you can't go any further and for once, you feel invincible. Like nothing could touch you or harm you as long as Stan is in the way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You watch the snow a while longer, until your eyelids are too heavy to keep open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, does that mean…” His voice rumbles through you. You wait for him to continue, but he never does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mean what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, y’know...us. A thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You should probably look at him for this conversation, but you’re too warm and cozy. You open your mouth and the words that spring to your lips are </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But that’s way too far, way too soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to. I--I really care about you,” you mumble into his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You swear his heart skips a beat. “So...goin’ steady?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>skip a beat, and do a backflip, and try to crawl its way out of your chest too. You aren’t sure whether to laugh or to cry, so you just nod ferociously against him and flip onto your other side, curling even tighter into him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and squeezes you with what must be a restrained version of his joy, because you know those arms could break you in half. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You finally pull your head back up onto the pillow and sigh contentedly. Stan’s wearing a grin that might split his face in half, eyes trained on your hand as he absently strokes a thumb over it. Your eyes drift to his mouth, the set of his jaw, the slightest hint of a wintertime beard, just like they always do. Except this time, you’re gonna act on it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You touch his chin, getting his attention and lifting his eyes to yours. The grin falls off his face. “Can I kiss you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say yes, he doesn’t say no. He just threads his hands through your hair and for the second time in one morning, he pulls you into the softest, most intoxicating kiss you’ve ever experienced. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>No TW here today!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I swear Charlie, there’s something different about you today,” Sharon says with a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She's caught you smiling and humming to yourself again as the two of you sort out this week’s produce shipment. She’s got a pyramid of oranges in front of her, you have half a bin of bananas still left to put out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You manage to get the words out straight, but you give her a very pointed smirk to go with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She props her elbows on the edge of the banana display and sets her chin in her hands, grinning adorably. “What is it, huh? You get good news from your folks? Or--oh! Don’t tell me you got a different job, I’d miss you so much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You place a large bunch of bananas right in front of her, to which she squawks offence. You laugh and move it down so you can see her again. “I didn’t get a new job, and my sister has blissfully had no news since my nephew broke his arm on Christmas Eve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sharon gives that a wince of sympathy, but quickly bounces back into nosy. It’s what she does best. “I’ll find out sooner or later,” she sighs. She moves to the other side of the box and starts unloading bananas. Today her earrings are pearlescent blue hearts the size of her actual ears, and even though it’s been four days since Christmas, she’s still wearing her favorite Rudolph sweater. She said this morning that she had to get as many miles out of it as she could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you think I can’t withstand your pestering, you’ve got another thing comin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh it’s not me you have to worry about. Rumors get around in Gravity Falls, nobody has good news for long without someone finding out about it,” she says with a wink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that much is inevitable. The Mystery Shack is becoming something of a local staple, and since it brought in so many tourists over the summer, a lot of folks want to be on Stan’s good side. There’s no way someone doesn’t catch him smooching the co-owner in the broom closet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought makes you giggle aloud, and Sharon shoots you a cross look. That only makes you laugh harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stamps her foot on the tile. “Come on! It’s no fair keeping it to yourself, you’re gonna drive me </span>
  <em>
    <span>crazy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well it’s my little secret for now. I guess you’ll just have to hear from the rumor mill for yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmph. What’s the use having insider access if you don’t get the scoop?” She silently unloads the last of the bananas and leans against the display again. “Y’know, I wanted to be a journalist since I was just a little girl. I wanted to write the things I read in magazines and travel the world.” She stares dreamily into the middle distance until her smile falters. “Dan says he won’t leave Gravity Falls. He wants to take over his dad’s business when he turns twenty, just like his dad did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well...that doesn’t mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know. Besides, like Mom says, I’m only fifteen. I’ve got plenty of time to decide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sidle up next to her and bump her arm with your shoulder. “She’s right. And...y’know, if it does come to choosing, just remember you’ve got a whole life ahead of you. Don’t ever do something because it’s what other people expect of you, ‘cause those what-ifs will keep you up at night. Do what’s best for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> not your mom or Dan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stares down at her sneakers for a moment, then looks up with a bright smile. “Thanks, I’ll remember that. Um...Y’know, you’re kinda like a sibling to me? I mean it when I say I’d miss you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wrap your arm around her shoulders and squeeze her tight against your side. “I’d miss you too, you little brat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You spend the last ten minutes of your shift helping her break down boxes and sweep up fruit debris. The end of it is marked by the front door swinging open, chiming the bell above, and Stan walking through. He stomps snow off his boots and shakes it out of his hat with his nose scrunched up the whole time. When his eyes land on you, he smiles and waves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sharon’s giving you a look, so you shrug as you remove your apron. “He needed the car today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your apron goes in your narrow locker in the break room and your backpack and coat come off the coat rack. By the time you’re clocked out and ready to go, Sharon’s cornered Stan and chatting about Dan. She’s always trying to get advice out of him, since he and Dan spent so much time together over the autumn at the logging camp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should go before the roads get too bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan nods. “Right, you’re right. Sorry Sharon, we’ll have to catch up more next time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bats a hand at him. “Don’t worry about it, you two get home safe. Night Charlie!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bid her goodnight and turn toward the door with Stan. Just before leaving, you thread your fingers through his, turn to look over your shoulder, and give Sharon and her open-mouthed shock a cheeky wink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan snickers. “I take it you told her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You squeeze his hand as you step out into the snow. “Just did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You didn’t tell Sharon the whole truth of why Stan had to pick you up tonight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Last night you woke up around two in the morning with tears in your eyes. You had a nightmare so vivid that for a moment, you didn’t know where you were when you woke up. You lay in bed breathing and staring at the ceiling for a long while, before finally throwing off the covers and marching up the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the one night of sleeping in Stan’s bed, it wasn’t really discussed whether or not it would happen again. You both went to bed in your respective rooms that night, and then didn’t mention it again for three days. Because, as two people who had been dodging emotions for six months, you were very good at dodging the conversations that came with them. Waking up like that, though--you were so upset and you knew that even if he was grumpy being woken up in the moment, he would want you to go to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he wasn’t grumpy. He nearly leapt out of bed when you touched his shoulder to wake him, but he wasn’t grumpy. When you asked if you could sleep with him the rest of the night, he just gave a sleepy smile and nod, then gathered you up in his warm arms. He was, of course, snoring in the very next moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much later in the morning, you woke up in Stan’s bed to the faint sound of your alarm going off downstairs. It had been nearly thirty minutes since it had first started sounding, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>neither</span>
  </em>
  <span> of you had woken up. While you frantically threw clothes on and pulled a brush through your hair, Stan brewed the world’s fastest pot of coffee and dumped it directly into a thermos. Without your asking, he drove you to work in his sweatpants and house shoes while you drank your coffee in the passenger’s seat, pressed up against his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re glad he wore real pants to pick you up, but honestly, you’d have thanked him even if he showed up naked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. You’d have a lot of other things to say and process if he showed up naked, but that’s beside the point. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>point </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that it’s been four days, and every single one of them has had </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you </span>
  </em>
  <span>at the tip of your tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You slide into the passenger’s seat for the second time that day. Stan starts the car to get the heater going again as fast as he can, but before he can get his hands on the wheel you’ve got your hand on his chin and he meets you halfway for a kiss. His lips are so warm even in this cold, and the way his hands always find your waist is so endearing that you feel like you might burst out of your skin. He’s grinning when you pull away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good day at work, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod. “Yeah, it was quiet. Thank you again for driving me, you really didn’t have to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs it off and puts the car in reverse. “I don’t mind. ‘Sides, it’s a good reason to get out of that basement before sundown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You reach over the seat behind you and rifle around in the box of tapes. It’s too dark outside to see what you’re grabbing, so you take three from the bottom of the box at random. “Okay, we’ve got </span>
  <em>
    <span>Earth Wind and Fire</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rod Stewart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and...who’s Whitney Houston?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pfft, I dunno. I snatched it off the new stuff rack at the gas station a few weeks ago. I’m pretty sure the guy who works nights there is intentionally putting out stuff he thinks I won’t like, but it sounds pretty bitchin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You slide the tape into the player and read the name of the track off the back of the cassette case. It sounds about how you expected from the picture on the front; slow and sweet. Not really special, but you have to admit this lady’s got a nice voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I’m not gonna get on your case about it or anything, but I have to ask: is the petty theft strictly necessary?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles and thinks for a long moment before answering. “Uhh, I dunno. I guess not. My Ma taught me how to pickpocket when I was...ooh, ten? Pa scammed every poor schmuck who came in off the street, not to mention I didn’t have shit for cash for a while. I guess I don’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. Just a habit,” he shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m guessin’ Catholic school taught you something different?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can tell by the edge in his voice that he’s teasing, but you still feel the need to defend yourself. “Hey, I went to public school like everyone else. But yes. Sunday school generally advised against theft. Thou shalt not steal, that whole shebang.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meh. I don’t take from local-owned shops, but anything with a logo on the front is fair game.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Diablo turns into the long dirt road that winds through the words and dead-ends at the shack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You make it through two songs before you have to turn down the volume on Ms. Houston. She’s got a great voice but, uh, there's something a little uncomfortable about the subject matter with your romantic partner of exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>four days</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have any plans tonight?” Stan asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope. I’m starving though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well lucky for you, I just so happened to eat the last of the turkey for lunch. How about pizza?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You fake-gasp. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you never order pizza for delivery. The man I know is far too thrifty to pay for delivery </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> a tip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flashes a quick grin. “I’ve got a coupon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knew it.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“Can I ask you something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shoot,” Stan replies, mouth full of pizza.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you saw me at the bus stop--I get why you helped me then. It’s just the decent thing to do. But the next day, you found me at the diner and you literally spent all day trying to help me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not hearin’ a question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lean forward on your elbows. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs and wipes his hands off on his napkin, also leaning forward to meet your gaze. “It was a Wednesday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can’t help smiling--it’s the same explanation he gave way back then. He looks a lot different now, though, both because of the hair and the glasses and because of how you see him. There’s no lease of distrust, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Okay, but it’s gotta be more than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds your gaze, narrowing his eyes at you. You narrow yours back, he narrows his even further. You both squint at each other for a long moment, until he breaks first with a laugh and casts his eyes back down to his plate. “Yer gonna think it’s stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes another bite of pizza and mulls it over while he chews. “Alright, fine. I could tell you needed someone. Well, maybe not </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I knew I could help you. And…I’ve been there before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your smile only broadens. “You softie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sticks his tongue out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You eat in silence for a while, splitting the supreme pizza between yourselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think you’d have been better off if someone had helped you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “Lotta people tried. I was a whole hell of a lot younger, and stupider.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm. Yeah, I probably wouldn’t have taken help back then either. What is it about being young that makes you feel like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like you have to take on the world all by yourself? Pff, fuck if I know. I’m just glad I grew out of it.” He stands and silently starts clearing the table, putting the plates in the sink and shoving the whole pizza box in the fridge. You let him do it while you finish off the crust in your hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his hands come down on your shoulders from behind, you jolt upright for a tense moment. You ease into it as he lazily rubs at your shoulders and neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s undeniably weird to be romantically involved with someone you've lived with platonically for half a year. You still instinctively move aside when your trajectories are going to meet in the kitchen or the hallway. It takes a few cold swerves before both of you realize the other is going in for an embrace. He still jumps a foot off the couch every time your hand slots into his, and you hold your breath every time his face nears yours, always waiting for him to pull away at the last moment. He never does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘M glad you ended up here,” he says quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You crane your neck to smile up at him. “Me too.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'll be starting a betting pool now to see how long it'll take one of them to slip up and say I love you, and which one it will be :3</p><p>Did you know that Whitney Houston’s first album dropped in early 1985 and by mid 1986 she was on the top 100s chart? Speaking of which, if you’re interested I've made a CharlieStan playlist that you can find through my tumblr blog of the same name. Thanks for reading as always!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Chapter 34</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>IM BACK</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Stan shifts in place on the couch and heaves out a sigh. You look up from your book, but he’s still staring at the TV with his chin in his hand. Not nearly long enough later, he lets out another great sigh. You put your bookmark in place and snap it shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, what’s on your mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks over, eyebrows raised. “Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The sighing? What’s on your mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” He looks back toward the TV, but he’s squinting now. “Eh, just thinking ‘bout New Year’s.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shift to nestle yourself against him, resting your head on his shoulder. He throws an arm around you and puts his head atop yours. You were worried at first that this would change, somehow. Your quiet moments on the couch of being near each other and doing your own thing, it’s something you value more than you could have expected. There have been a lot of awkward half-kisses and missed touches and nervous approaches, but this hasn’t changed. He never hesitates to put a warm hand on your leg, or even put his head in your lap when exhaustion overtakes him. It’s nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you usually celebrate New Years?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You think for a moment. “He always took me to company parties. Champagne, semi-formal dress.” You wrinkle your nose. “It was stuffy. But when I was a kid, my mom would let us stay up until midnight with as much candy and soda as we could stomach. We rarely made it to see the new year,” you laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heh, me and my brother did somethin’ similar, except we didn’t have permission. He would...he would read to me by flashlight until we heard the fireworks, then we watched from the window until it was over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I know you miss him,” you say quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hums agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You open your book back up and keep reading onward while Stan’s weight grows heavier and heavier against you. You’ll never understand how he can fall asleep--practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>anywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>--so easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You jump so hard that your book goes flying to the floor and your head jolts upright, knocking Stan’s jaw audibly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan!” You turn in your seat and put a hand on his jaw, which he’s already wincing against. “You scared the shit out of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs--that loud, happy laugh that you love. “Wasn’t yer fault. Is your noggin okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can’t help echoing that laugh. “Yes. What were you yelling about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubs his jaw one more time and moves it this way and that. Satisfied with its function, he opens his mouth to speak, then stalls. His expression goes bashful. “I--uh, I just realized I haven’t...taken you out proper. Like, on a date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” You laugh again. “We live together already, I didn’t even think about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well we gotta go out, I wanna do right by you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, you could just kiss him right now. “Alright. Well...if we go out together here, everyone’s gonna know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pfft, how come? We go out together all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For breakfast, while you’re wearing sweatpants and I'm in a shirt I’ve owned since high school. If we...y’know...go out for dinner or something, people are gonna notice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s hand finds your hip and rests there for a moment, until you decide to reposition. With your head in his lap and his arm draped over you like a blanket, you look up at him and wait for him to continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to keep it secret?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Your turn to take a quiet moment. “No, it’s just--well, you seem like a private person I guess. And this town is...nosy. To say the least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts. “Yeah, the very least. Hmmm.” He combs a hand through your hair while he thinks. The wrinkle between his eyebrows is getting more prominent by the day, with as much scowling and thinking as he’s been doing lately. “What about a movie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, I see, you just wanna neck me in the back of the theater.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins. “I don’t need a theater to do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, good point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You rise to meet him halfway for a kiss. His mouth slides from yours and leaves a sloppy trail down your jaw to your neck. He kisses and nibbles and rubs his scratchy chin at you until you’re breathless with laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lay panting in his arms, trying to catch your breath with a grin so wide it feels like your face might split. You put a hand on his cheek, rubbing a thumb across the prickly skin. He leans into your touch and looks down on you with so much affection in his brown eyes. It feels like he’s beaming love directly into you with that gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He draws breath to speak, then stops himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. It’s just...you’re beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your heart skips a beat. You wiggle up into a sitting position, feeling heat rise in your cheeks as you realize you’re literally sitting in his lap, but you continue on anyway. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> beautiful. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to bite my tongue? I love the angles of your face, I love the width of your shoulders, I think those glasses make you look one thousand times cuter.” You stop yourself at </span>
  <em>
    <span>and I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re still biting your tongue...a little bit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks absolutely bewildered, lips parted and eyes searching you for a hint of a lie. He laughs once, a single nervous chuckle, then shakes it off. “You don’t gotta flatter me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes your cheek in his hand and kisses you. It sets your heart fluttering and you gasp in a breath through your nose as if he’s just siphoned the air right out of your lungs. He breaks the kiss after a moment, but he doesn’t move away. Your lips are just barely brushing together as you breathe into each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It didn’t start like this,” he murmurs. “It was a few weeks. You just--you see the wonder in everything. You--” he pauses to kiss you. “It's just impossible not to like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You press your forehead to his. You can’t say anything because if you try, all that will come out is </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’ve loved him for months--not even in a romantic way at first. You love sitting at the dinner table with him, you love listening to him loudly and badly sing whatever song is stuck in his head. You love that he trusts you with his feelings and secrets, you love that he’s trustworthy with your own. You love having him near. You love him, plain and simple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s only been a week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls away a little farther, catching your gaze. “Is this okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nod, then laugh breathlessly. “I'm sorry--I'm not laughing at you. It's just this whole thing, it's so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Unbelievable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses another warm kiss to your lips. “I'm gonna take you out soon, when you least expect it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like a threat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cup his face in your hands and try to preserve this picture: Stan, dimly lit by the TV, with the most simple and blissful smile you've ever seen on his face. “Don't do anything too fancy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He purses his lips and his eyes dart away from you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Stan</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I'm serious!” You laugh. “I don't like surprises!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, fine, I'll give ya...an hour’s notice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forty five minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An hour and a half.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fifty minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sigh. Even you can't haggle against Stan Pines. “An hour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins like a shark. “Deal.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you're dreaming. It isn't a thought in so many words, it's just the electric yellow current pulsing throughout everything around you. The carpet is the wrong color, people you don't speak to are sitting in the living room of the shack, and everything is just a little to the left. A dog trots down the hallway--Rudy, that’s your childhood dog Rudy. You follow him without thought, because you know you're dreaming, and because even your unconscious self can't resist the chance to pet those silky ears once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He noses through to the gift shop and does a nose-to-the-ground once over on the room. He doesn't even see you, it's like you aren't there. Are you? It looks right, the gift shop, but it feels wrong. Something is watching you. The dog barks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you turn, the door you entered from is now a wall of gaping darkness. It seeps out the edges of the room in smoky tendrils and cold chills up your spine, but Rudy disappears into it all the same. You hear the jingle of his tags and his happy little yaps fade into the distance, swallowed by the dark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is wrong, everything is wrong. This is wrong. This place this door this darkness this dog. Its too far left left. It's dark. It's yellow. It's watching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn away from the door and find another one--they're on all sides of you now, pressing and closing in on you. You turn and turn and there's nothing but the door and the yellow and the eyes and the watching and the dark. You turn, you turn, you turn,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your ass hitting the carpet is what wakes you. You thrash against invisible enemies for only a moment before you still, heart beating heavily, and realize it was only a dream. Stan’s snoring up on the couch doesn't so much as stutter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink a few times. It takes a moment for the leftover uneasy feeling to wear off as you realize the carpet is the right color now, there's no ghosts in the room, and there's no dog. You're used to distressing dreams, but that one was just...unsettling. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Or...maybe that was just falling asleep without first brushing your teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie?” Stan’s mumble is directed into a couch cushion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You reach up and put a hand on his shoulder. “I fell off the couch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs breathily. Good to know that even in the dead of night, his first reaction is to laugh at you. “Y’okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. I'm gonna go to bed.” You state the intention, but you don't move from your spot on the carpet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long moment, Stan heaves himself up and off the couch with a grunt. He takes you by the hands, dragging you up to your feet, and shuffles alongside you to crash into bed side by side.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Chapter 35</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I did a lot of research for this chapter. I read a lot of other stuff and made sure I wouldn't be crossing into places I don't belong. I do not identify as trans or nonbinary, but a lot of what Charlie is thinking does come from contemplations I've had on my own. Ultimately I did want to keep it as period-accurate as I could without being offensive (because there's no excuse for that in this kind of story). Know that I wrote this chapter with the best of intentions and the very most heart that I could, and I want to know if I've done wrong. </p><p>TW: gender Tomfoolery specifically of the trans and nonbinary varieties. Charlie and Stan do not speak negatively toward either of these topics, but there is a mention of someone threatening to out another. Light body dysphoria. </p><p>We will be back to the regularly scheduled fluff next week :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Do you ever feel like...your brain doesn't belong in your body?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the room, Stan pauses. “I’ll take loaded questions for five hundred, Alex.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh, though your heart’s not entirely in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dunno if I understand what you’re gettin’ at,” he muses. He’s standing at a crude workbench against the wall to get the most natural light, making an even cruder piece of taxidermy art. Though </span>
  <em>
    <span>art</span>
  </em>
  <span>...might be a stretch. “I think...everybody dislikes their body sometimes, if that’s what ya mean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You're on the floor, spread out in the patch of warm afternoon sun like a beached starfish. “Hm. I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve heard your mom complain of wrinkles as she grows older and your sister complained of stomach fat after her pregnancies. You certainly went through some of that in high school--like Stan said, maybe everybody did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts down the industrial strength glue and abandons his masterpiece-in-progress to come sit beside you on the floor. He leans back on his elbows and closes his eyes in the face of the sun. “What’s got your goat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I dunno. Just, sometimes I feel--I feel like what I am inside doesn't match the outside. I look in the mirror and I'm surprised. You don't ever have that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks hard for a moment, takes off his glasses and folds them in his lap. “I guess? I mean, bein’ a hobo’s rough on the physique.” He adds a dramatic bicep flex here for emphasis. “But I also have an identical twin. So…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, that does add a layer to things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan lays down on the cold wood flooring beside you and scoots up close. His hand finds yours and brings it between both of his to rest on his stomach, still silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took you all of a week to figure out touch is Stan’s love language. Sometimes when you touch him you can </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> his heart skip a beat and he always leans into it. If he’s within arm’s reach, you can guarantee he’s touching you in some way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What else?” He asks gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I've never liked wearing things that...I dunno how to say it--things that showed my body? I wore dresses and things when I had to, but I always felt sort of blah about it. And growing up, when all the girls in school started to get into their mothers’ makeup and wore those short skirts, I was not on board.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A tomboy,” Stan adds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes! That's what everyone’s always called me. It's not like I want to wrestle and play in the mud and…uh, whatever else guys do--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan barks a hearty laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--I just didn't want to do what girls do either. I'm just somewhere in the middle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you're not a freak, let's get that out of the way.” He pauses for a long time. “Listen, I uh, stayed in Atlanta for a while back in my twenties. I was lookin’ for a buck so I took a job from an ad looking for a bodyguard. I’m a big guy, y’know? But, shit, that part doesn't matter. To make a long story short, I found out my employer was not...</span>
  <em>
    <span>born</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a woman. She was getting harassed by someone threatenin’ to out her and let me tell you, I enjoyed beating up that sad sack. Anyway. I’m--I'm just trying to say, y’know, there are options. ‘N I don't want you thinking about me when you make those choices, you hear? I'm along for the ride no matter what you decide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn the words over in your head for a moment. Then all at once, you turn over on your side and press a long kiss to Stan’s cheek. He’s blushing when you pull away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know Pines, you're full of surprises.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stammers for a second. “I--uh, there’s more where that came from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh and kiss him again, right on the corner of his mouth. He tries to turn into it but you pull away too quickly. “So this woman you knew, did she turn out okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, I hope so. She got a job out in LA and I never heard from her again,” he laughs. “She knew what she wanted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geez, that must be nice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s fingers move over and between yours while you lay in silence. The sun is retreating father and farther and starting to dip below the treeline now. You love when Stan holds your hands like this, every movement and caress feels like pure love. It’s probably something he does idly, but you melt anyway, every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just wish I didn't have to worry about the whole thing. Like, Stan, I don't think you realize how much you changed my life just by giving me a new name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn't do that,” he interjects. “You chose the name yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you gave me that </span>
  <em>
    <span>choice</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I've lived in Catholic backwater Oregon my whole life, I haven't been to the big cities like you, or met all those people. It's...nice to know I'm not that weird after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh don't get me wrong, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>super </span>
  </em>
  <span>weird, and that's why you ended up here, and I'm gonna thank the universe for the rest of my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh into his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how should I introduce you? Girlfriend, boyfriend, friends with cuddling benefits, </span>
  <em>
    <span>business partner</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” He pokes your ribs with the last one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you introducing me to, the mailman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ohh hoho, this is because I haven't taken you out yet, huh? For a </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fancy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>super expensive </span>
  </em>
  <span>dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh please, I know with those tight purse strings of yours I have nothing to worry about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm wounded, Charles. It's true, there will be a whole mariachi band, and sweet pale moonlight, and when you least expect it I will call out the waiters to sing happy birthday to you while the whole restaurant watches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You gasp dramatically. “You wouldn't!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nuzzles his face into your neck. “I would, I can be very cruel.” He blows a big, wet raspberry into your neck, then kisses your temple while you catch your breath from laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I know what I want,” he says. His tone is bold, a little bit of false bravado that you see every now and again when he isn't actually sure he wants to disclose the truth. But he pulls you close to rest your head on his chest, and mumbles into your hair, “I want to find my brother, I want to get the hell out of Oregon, and I wanna have you with me for it all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm already there,” you reply softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You lay in warm, companionable silence until the sun’s gone from the room completely, leaving you to sit in the twilight. The glimpse of stars visible through the window and thick pine boughs transports you back to camping. The way the tip of your nose and ears went numb in the cold, and Stan’s breath was visible in puffs of white right beside you, the fading light of the fire, swapping secrets. That was such a peaceful moment, full of laughter and warmth and a sort of pure, clean energy that you hadn't felt in years. This feels like that. In fact, every time Stan pulls you close, it feels like that. The way his fingers caress your hand, when he refreshes your drink without you asking, when he makes coffee in the morning and kisses you goodbye as you float out the door. It's love. Every single bit of it, even before you confessed your feelings to him, it was love. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes, muscles tensing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--I'm sorry, it hasn't been long but I just want you to know--I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> you to know, I love you. You don't have to say it if you aren't ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He draws in a long breath and holds it for a moment, then it comes out in a tangle of hesitant words. “I’m not...I've never been good at--</span>
  <em>
    <span>this part.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I feel the same way,” he rushes to add, “I just don't know how to--how t’say it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pick your head up and turn to him. Your heart’s hammering in your chest, a reflection of his quickened breathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His brown eyes meet yours. Not for the first time, the stark difference between his tired face and his childlike eyes strikes you. He looks every bit the part of the muscle, the firm hand, the stoic Man’s Man, but when you look into his eyes...all you see is raw feeling. Stan lies so smoothly that sometimes you worry he could do the same thing to you, fool you like the sap you are, but those eyes tell all. You know how to read his eyes, and right now they're terrified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don't wanna mess this up.” His voice is thin and cracking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take his hand again and press a kiss to his knuckles. “I know how you feel,” you murmur. “At least--shit, I hope I do.” His finger brushes over your cheek. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> loved.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits up and takes you with him, pulling you into a hug in his lap. With his legs around you and his upper body on top, you feel like you've been wrapped in an eggshell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You deserve so much better than I can give you,” he mumbles into your hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You punch him in the chest. From the short range, it doesn't have very much power behind it, but it gets his attention. “You airhead, don't say that. Even if I did, I don't care. If life was only about what you deserved and not what you </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>, we’d both be in a bad way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs just a little. “Where the fuck do you pull this stuff from? Sometimes I feel like I'm talking to some kinda fuckin’ philosopher.” He tightens his arms around you until you feel like you’re gonna snap in two. “I love you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wiggle into a position where you can throw your arms around him and return the bone-crushing embrace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is home.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> is The Rest of Your Life. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Chapter 36</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've been avoiding the last half of this chapter for weeks and it literally took me twenty minutes to write it -_-</p><p>TW: uhhhhnnnn there's some moderate violence in the second half, but other than that I think we're good today folks. Read on!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>February is decidedly the worst month of the year. It's Bad Winter. December is Good Winter, full of snow and joy and holiday cheer, but February is just cold and dark and </span>
  <em>
    <span>extremely unwelcome</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>February also happens to hold one of the most pointless and commercialistic holidays of all. Even more than Christmas, the Valentine’s Day incentive is to </span>
  <em>
    <span>buy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Spend money on dinner, spend money on jewelry, spend money on flowers, spend spend spend spend </span>
  <em>
    <span>spend</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The last time Valentine's Day appealed to you, you were in middle school and the candy was all you looked forward to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan had been the one to bring it up first. The conversation had gone something like, “So, Valentine's Day?” To which you immediately replied </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span> and did not elaborate very much. Stan agreed to intentionally </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> make plans on Valentine's Day so that it could be expressly ignored. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being scheduled to work most of the holiday was just a bonus of dumb luck. You left early enough that not even Stan had woken up yet--those mornings were always odd--and you were on the clock until four, just before dark. You thought for sure that you’d make it off the hook, but apparently that’s just too good to be true. Because who should come strolling into the store at 3:50? None other than Stanford Pines, of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He comes straight for your register with a twenty dollar bill in hand, smiling knowingly. You look him in the eye and place the red ‘THIS REGISTER CLOSED’ sign on the counter between the two of you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry Sir, my shift’s ending.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans his elbows on the counter and holds the bill out lazily. “Ah, c’mon doll face, can't you help a poor fella out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You level a gaze at him that hopefully says </span>
  <em>
    <span>what are you doing, stop it immediately</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and hold your hand out for the bill. “What’ll it be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quarters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blink. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Quarters</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm, yeah, those silver ones, they're round and big. Right there on the far left y’see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shove him away from the register, at which he laughs, and start counting out quarters meticulously. You can feel Sharon's eyes on you even while she chats up the customer in her lane. “Oh, for-- Sharon, you got a few rolls of quarters over there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure thing, just a sec.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn back to Stan. He’s smirking like the cat that ate the canary, holding his chin in his hand and practically draped across the counter. “It’ll be a minute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, totally. So--” He makes a show of looking at your name tag. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Charlie</span>
  </em>
  <span>, can I call ya Chuck? I can't imagine someone as good-lookin’ as yourself doesn't have someone to take ‘em out tonight, Chuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan, you’re a dork.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes off the counter and laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take the two unopened rolls of quarters from Sharon. “And for the last time, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you cannot call me Chuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time you’ve wrestled the quarters out of the paper, Stan’s come around the other side of the counter. He swipes a small paper bag to hold the half-pound of change. He pecks you on the cheek in the process of the transaction (Sharon squeals out loud) and steps away to let you out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me get my stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You meet Stan at the door and thread your arm through his, guiding him toward the car that you parked this morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold on a second, did you walk into town?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waves it off immediately. “Most of the snow melted when it rained a couple days ago, it’s not a big deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could have driven the car to you during lunch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You default to the passenger side of the car, toss him the keys over the top of it, and slide in together. He instantly rolls the seat back from your required up-close position.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, but then you wouldn’t have eaten lunch. By the way, this is your two minute warning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You frown at the dash while he revs the engine and pulls out of the lot. “Okay, you got me. Two minute warning for what, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our surprise date,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your mouth drops open. All you can do is stare while your brain struggles to process the situation. His giggle is what finally gives your voice back. “Stan! I said two </span>
  <em>
    <span>hours</span>
  </em>
  <span>, two </span>
  <em>
    <span>hour </span>
  </em>
  <span>warning! I’m--I’m in work clothes!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fine. I’m not dressed up,” he points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wh-- I-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>ugh!</span>
  </em>
  <span> What about our deal! We agreed not to make Valentine’s Day plans, you jerk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pats your knee. “Oh Charlie, Charlie. This isn’t a plan, it’s a surprise date.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smack his hand. “You are so full of shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barks a laugh, then glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “If you don't feel up to it, we can go home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well--” you huff out a breath. He really means it, you know he’ll turn right back toward the shack if you ask him to. It’s not like you’re too tired, you just…don’t like surprises. You cross your arms over your chest and sulk thoroughly. “It's fine, you just have to feed me. I’m hungry,” you pout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs and playfully shoves your shoulder. You smile in spite of yourself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, grab a tape and strap in. We’re going all the way to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>other side of town</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh and oblige him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan winds through back roads and abandoned intersections expertly, never once pausing to check the map that lives in the glovebox or interrupting </span>
  <em>
    <span>Queen</span>
  </em>
  <span> to say a word. You’ll never admit it to him, but the intrigue has you practically vibrating in your seat with excitement. You haven't felt so much insect activity in your stomach since you were a </span>
  <em>
    <span>teenager</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know where he’s going to stop as soon as you see it. A big neon bowling pin stands above a squat, nondescript building. The sign underneath says ‘BOWLING, ARCADE, PUTT-PUTT, AND MORE’.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quarters,” you mumble. It makes sense now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once he’s parked the Diablo, Stan nearly climbs over the hood to get your door before you can get it yourself, the very picture of rushed chivalry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s put gel in his hair or something, it’s all slicked back in some kind of greaser bouffant that, frankly, shows his age. But he’s grinning a mile wide and the black t-shirt, red flannel combo is doing wonders for that broad chest of his. You enter arm-in-arm and pause just inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The building is loud and dimly lit, and pretty busy for a Wednesday night. The bowling alley beyond is lit by neon tubes and the crash of pins is accompanied by hollering. Teenagers with teased hair and tight pants and flashy costume jewelry fill out the scene all around you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh under your breath. “God, we must be old enough to be these kids’ parents.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan looks out at them and back at you, then he laughs too. “Stop it, I feel old enough as it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let your eyes drift down from his face to what’s closer to your line of sight; that tasty bit of clavicle and chest hair peeking out of Stan’s shirt. It’s tight enough to outline all of his squishy bits. He constantly makes it very clear that he doesn't like having the squishy bits, but you adore every inch of him anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You need to move before you jump him. You grab his hand and pull him into the arcade and amble among the machines, taking it all in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pac-Man </span>
  <em>
    <span>waka-wakas</span>
  </em>
  <span>, bells from pinball machines, the smooth, rich rumble of a ball across a skeeball lane. It smells like popcorn butter and nacho cheese and the brighter points of your youth. You turn to Stan, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> that you're grinning like an idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I did a good job?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stand on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “It isn't the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span> surprise I've ever seen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands find rest on your hips and teenagers stream around you like your age is contagious. “Oh just wait, I've got a mariachi band and a whole herd of waiters to sing Happy Birthday while you stand on top of Donkey Kong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You break out laughing and don't stop until there are tears in your eyes and a stitch in your side. “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a moment to kiss you--fully and gently, on the lips. He can't always force the words out of his mouth in response--in fact, he usually doesn't--but he always shows you he means it somehow. And isn't that just as meaningful?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pull away and move to his ear to whisper, “I'm gonna kick your ass on Frogger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh you're on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don't beat him on Frogger. You don't beat him on Super Mario Bros. or Pac-Man or </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the pinball machines either; Stan is a magician with the hand-eye coordination of a knitter on steroids. Or, alternatively, someone very well versed in pickpocketing and cheating at poker. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes up for it by buying a hearty dinner of cheap nachos, the greasiest cheese pizza you've ever seen, and a mound of chili fries. Chili fries are put on top of pizza, pizza is dipped in nacho sauce, nacho chips are used to scoop up chili. It's a veritable smorgasbord. It’s decadent. It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much grease</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He props his feet up on the booth beside you, and you do the same to him. While you admire this beautiful man you've somehow cuffed, he lets out an earth-shattering belch and nearly laughs himself out of his chair. A ten year old a few tables over is giving you major side-eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many quarters do we have left?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls the paper bag out of his pocket and hefts it. “Ehh, eight dollars?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your doubt must have immediately shown in your expression, because Stan rolls his eyes and dumps the change on the table. He divides it into nine four-coin stacks with one coin left. “Closest without going over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have very peculiar skills.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drops the coins back in the bag one stack at a time, smirking. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You put your feet back on the ground and stretch. “Well, Skeeball is fifty cents per play, but it's the only thing I think I’ll be able to beat you at.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grins like a shark. “Are you willing to bet on that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With you? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You clear the trash from the table together, take turns sucking down the soda you aren't allowed to remove from the little cafeteria, and duck right back into the flashing lights of the arcade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan hands you several quarters, then puts two in his lane and yours. “It's for when you want a rematch,” he says with a wink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cheeky fucker.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The balls clack into place to the right of the lane and you don't hesitate on that first shot. You end up taking turns, judgmentally watching each other's throws. Stan’s fourth ball jumps the lane and ends up rolling down yours. You laugh while he scrabbles for it, reveling in knowing you've finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>won</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You skeeball four times, then once more to break the tie, and you come out on top. Stan sticks his lip out in an exaggerated pout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, poor bunny,” you croon. You stand up on your toes and kiss his pouty mouth, which only makes him pout harder. You laugh and grab either side of his flannel, pulling him down to your level for a deeper kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You nibble his pouty lip and feel the tone of the embrace change immediately. Before you know it, Stan’s guiding you backward into a dark corner. You're pressed between the wall and his body, warm and heavy. Your hands are instantly beneath his shirt, roaming and groping on the soft skin. He holds your jaw with one hand, keeping you locked in the breathless kiss. The arcade feels very hot all of a sudden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pull him impossibly closer. His other hand holds your hip judiciously, fingers digging into your side. Your bodies are flush with each other and flush with heat, hands roaming to places they haven't yet, and shouldn't. At least not </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But the endorphins shooting through your body and the heat building in uncomfortable places keeps pushing you on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a sharp whistle behind Stan. “Woo! Yeah, get some grandpa!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You both stop moving only for a single second, then Stan splutters a laugh nearly into your mouth and you both dissolve into giggles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Teenagers,” he mutters. His hands still feel hot, even as gently as they’re holding your shoulders now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let your head fall forward to rest against his chest, hiding your red-faced guilty grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smoothes a hand over your head and kisses the crown. “You ready to get outta here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the car, you stretch your legs out and lean into Stan’s side. He mutters something about how you should buckle up, but his arm winds around your shoulders anyway. You’ll never stop being thankful for these bench seats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights of the town pass over your closed eyes. The hum of the engine and Stan's warm, steady breathing is a soft lullaby. You don't sleep exactly, just sort of drift off and drool on yourself a bit, only vaguely aware of the waking world around you. If the seats were just a little comfier and the heater a little more effective, you could sleep here all night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You come to when Stan cuts the engine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sleepy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head no and bury yourself deeper into his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckles and shifts until his back is against the door, keeping you as still as he can. When the rustling is done, all there is to hear inside the small space is your own breathing and Stan’s. If you could live in this sleepy moment forever…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s hands wander. The car is cooling off without the heat going, but his fingers leave trails of warmth. His calloused fingers trail up your arms and thighs, a thumb traces your collarbones, then your mouth. “S’cold,” he whispers. “Y’want me to carry you in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You make a whiny groan and curl tighter into him. “I'm comfy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be comfier in bed, in pajamas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's not wrong. The thought of stripping off your jeans and crawling into bed is almost enough to get you moving. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Almost</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Instead, you wiggle your way up closer to Stan and kiss him. His lips are warm and inviting, and the stubble that brushes across your skin leaves behind the feeling of soda bubbles on the tongue. Like a crisp soda spiked with whisky, he's sharp and refreshing and intoxicating. You want more of him, pressing your body closer and thrusting your tongue into his mouth. He moans at this, the sound vibrating in your own throat and sending a hot thrill through your entire self. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without your lips leaving his, you twist your body to lay pressed against him, pinning him to the leather seat. Your pelvis arches backward to reflect the inward slouch of his and you hook your ankles around his legs. You startle when his hand brushes across bare skin under your shirt. You didn't even notice him untuck it, but his skin ghosting across your back is the most divine thing you've felt in a long time. If your heartbeat doesn't slow down, you’re going to faint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan grunts as you arch your back further under his hand. Your pelvic bone came down hard against the bulge in his pants, and as suddenly as you came together, you're both flying apart from each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sit against the passenger side door, panting a little, and wipe a stray smear of saliva from your chin. Stan’s face has gone so incredibly beet red that for a moment, you aren't sure he’s even breathing. He full-body shudders, swallows dryly, and finally meets your eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You both dissolve into laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No words pass between you, but you feel like whatever just happened sort of goes beyond that anyway. Stan simply grabs your backpack from the back seat, takes your hand, and walks you inside. You part just long enough to brush your teeth and change into pajamas, then rendezvous at his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls you against him, tucked together like a couple of Pringles, and whispers, “Love you.”</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“Oo, watch out.” You grab Stan’s elbow and pull him off course to avoid a patch of ice on the sidewalk. He doesn't so much as stutter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--’n the worst part was, they wouldn't give my socks back! You never know indignity until you have to put on wet sneakers without socks, Chuck. I'm tellin’ ya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shake your head. “How very tragic, Stanford. That must have been so hard for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes quiet for a few paces, then chuckles. “You bet, babe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick stop in town to rent a movie quickly became more. It was a nice enough day out, with the harsh cold blue of the late February sky and the sunshine. Not quite warm enough to have melted all the snow and ice yet, but enough that you and Stan opted to walk through town for your various errands rather than drive from place to place. It’s all within the same few blocks anyway, and the walk is nice. Up to this moment, Stan hasn't stopped talking once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should probably start cleaning up the showroom,” you muse. “Spring break is--what, three weeks away?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm, somethin’ like that. You think we should open up for spring break?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. I sort of assumed you’d want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “Couldn't really afford to last year. What the hell, we might as well give her a go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bump your shoulder against him. “I have to admit, I've missed the Mister Mystery getup.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances over at you, chest puffed up. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. You look sharp in that sports coat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barks a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A car’s horn, followed by the screeching of tires, startles you both and stops you in your tracks. You look toward the sound to find a car with one wheel popped up on the sidewalk, black skid marks on the pavement around them, and a lithe figure scrambling across the road. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, not this guy,” Stan mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs you by the elbow and turns you around, keeping a firm hold on you while he takes long strides back in the direction you came from. It all happens to fast for you to even protest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“STANFERD PINES!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shrill voice makes you jump and walk a little faster, but you can't help craning your neck to look over your shoulder. The man is pale--too pale--with an arm wrapped in a dirty cast and feet noticeably bare on the slushy, cold sidewalk. His feet slap and splatter muck everywhere as he gains on you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan puts his arm around your entire midsection and basically floats you down the sidewalk. The half-crazed man behind you keeps screaming in pitches the human voice shouldn't be able to reach, saying things that don't sound like English.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s hand closes around the back of Stan’s jacket. Stan pushes you forward and whirls to stand firmly between you and the other man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, he’s hitting and clawing at Stan. His eyes are wild and bloodshot and his </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams</span>
  </em>
  <span>, good God, you've never heard anything like these screams. Stan grabs his wrists and tries to subdue him, but the lithe man just hangs his weight off Stan and starts kicking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“YOU AIN’T STANFERD, YOU GET OUTTA HIM, YOU GIVE HIM BACK YOU DEMON! </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>contra nequitiam</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wildly swinging foot catches Stan in the stomach. He doubles over as the air is knocked out of him, and as soon as the hillbilly’s on his feet, he starts bashing at Stan’s head again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“IT’S IN THE EYES, GIT HIS EYES!” His chanting grows in fervor. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>--contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos</span>
  </em>
  <span>--!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His cast hits Stan’s glasses, smashing them sideways into his face. He’s knocked back on his butt in the cold slush and trying to fight off this attacker, but the man’s reaching yellowed nails toward his eyes, clawing and scratching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You come back into your body all at once, realizing you aren't watching this from above. You have to do something!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You grab ahold of his arms from behind and yank him backward off Stan. You brace for impact, but he never turns on you. He just keeps straining to get at Stan and chanting loudly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charlie, be careful!” Stan picks himself up, leaving his glasses behind on the ground, and wipes blood from his nose. He gets a fistful of the man’s shirt and swings him into the shrubbery along the sidewalk. His hand is on you in the next breath, pulling you toward him. You're inclined to let him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get outta here McGucket! Go home!” Stan waves an arm at him. “Go!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gets up on all fours and scuttles across the parking lot that lay beyond the shrubbery. Once he’s cleared enough, he gets up on two legs and keeps running. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan’s groan catches you attention. You gasp when you see his face up close, he looks terrible. “Stan, come sit down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You guide him to the curb of the sidewalk. The little crowd of spectators that had gathered--mostly employees in the shops along this strip of road--started disappearing quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan presses the sleeve of his flannel to the gash on the side of his face--likely from that man’s fingernails. “He’s not right in the head, I don't think he meant to hurt me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bite down on your lip, turning his face this way and that to get a look at him. He’s going to have some bruises for sure, but at least he didn't get his eyeballs scooped out. “Where the hell does he know you from anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan gently takes your hand by the wrist, pulling you away from your examination. He lets out a big sigh before going on. “McGucket drifts in and out of town in varying levels of crazy. Sometimes he latches onto someone like that and starts shoutin’ some crazy shit.” He laughs without humor. “Guess he thinks I'm possessed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, I'm not so sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> isn't the possessed one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stan gets up and grabs his glasses. They’re completely ruined. The wire frames are bent and twisted, and one of the lenses came out of it completely. Looking down at them, he seems to completely zone out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let's go home and get some dry clothes on you.” You lace your fingers through his and squeeze to get his attention. “And I'll clean you up. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tosses the glasses into the bushes and sighs. “Yeah, okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Sancte Michael Archangele,</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>defende nos in proelio;</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium.</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur:</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>tuque, Princeps militiae caelestis,</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos,</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo,</em>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <em>divina virtute, in infernum detrude</em>
  </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27456268">Unconditionally</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novalin_Lavellan/pseuds/Novalin_Lavellan">Novalin_Lavellan</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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